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THE  WORKS 


OF 


EDWARD 
BULWER  LYTTON 

(LORD     LYTTON) 

THIRTY    VOLUMES:      ILLUSTRATED  WITH 
FORTY    FULL-PAGE    ENGRAVINGS 


DRAMAS 

NOT   SO    BAD  AS  WE  SEEM 
MONEY  THE  RIGHTFUL  HEIR 

WALPOLE  DARNLEY 


NEW    YORK 

P.  F.  COLLIER  AND  SON,  PUBLISHERS 

•  M  C  M  I  • 

30 


CONTENTS 


NOT  SO  BAD  AS  WE  SEEM,  OR  MANY  SIDES  TO  A  CHARACTER  .       3 

MONEY 93 

THE  RIGHTFUL  HEIR 201 

WALPOLE,   OR    EVERY    MAN    HAS    HIS   PRICE      .         .         .         .281 
DARNLEY 341 


SO 


/9o( 


V  NOT    SO     BAD    AS    WE    SEEM 

OR   MANY   SIDES   TO   A   CHARACTER 


^   r-  Jt  r-<"t€^e? 


DEDICATION. 


TO 
HIS  GRACE  THE  DUKE  OF  DEVONSHIRE,  K.G. 

My  Lord  Duke— 

This  play  is  respectfully  dedicated  to  your  Grace  in 
token  of  the  earnest  gratitude,  both  of  Author  and  Per- 
formers, for  the  genial  and  noble  sympathy  which  has 
befriended  their  exertions  in  the  cause  of  their  brother- 
hood. 

The  debt  that  we  can  but  feebly  acknowledge  may  those 
who  come  after  us  seek  to  repay;  and  may  each  loftier 
Cultivator  of  Art  and  Letters,  whom  the  Institution  estab- 
lished under  your  auspices  may  shelter  from  care  and 
penury,  see  on  its  corner-stone  your  princely  name, — 
and  perpetuate  to  distant  times  the  affectionate  homage 
it  commands  from   ourselves. 

It  is  this  hope  that  can  alone  render  worthy  the  tribute 
which,  in  my  own  name  as  Author,  and  in  the  names  of 
my  companions  the  Performers,  of  the  Play  first  repre- 
sented at  Devonshire  House,  I  now  offer  to  your  Grace, 
with  every  sentiment  that  can  deepen  and  endear  the  re- 
spect and  admiration 

With  which  1  have  the  honor  to  be, 

My  Lord  Duke, 
Your  Grace's  most  obedient  and  faithful  Servant, 

E.  BULWEE  LYTTOK. 


DRAMATIS   PERSON/E 


Original  Cast 

The  Duke  of  Middle-  i  Peers  attached  to  the  son  of  j  Mr.  Frank  Stone. 
SEX,  I  James  II.,  commonly  called  y  Mr.  Dudley  Cos- 

The  Earl  of  Loftus,  '   the  First  Pretender  .     .     .  )  tello. 

Lord  Wilmot,  a  young  man  at  the  head  \ 

of  the  Mode  more  than  a  century  ago,  [•  Mr.  Charles  Dickens. 

son  to  Lord  Loftus ) 

Mr.  Shadowly  Softhead,  a  young  gentle-  \ 

man  from  the  city,  friend  and  double  to  >  Mr.  Douglas  Jerrold. 

Lord  Wilmot ) 


Hardman,  a  rising  Member  of  Parliament,  \ 


Mr.  John  Forster. 


and  adherent  to  Sir  Robert  Walpole 

Sir  Geoffrey  Thornside,  a  gentleman  of  t^     ,, 

,  .      .,        J     /  *  C  Mr.  Mark  Lemon. 

good  family  and  estate     .        .        .        .  ) 

Mr.  Goodenough  Easy,  in  business,  highly  } 

respectable,  and  a  friend  of  Sir  Geoffrey,  f  ^^^-  ^-  ^-  Topham. 
Lord  Le  Trimmer       .        .  ( Frequenters  of  \  Mr.  Peter  Cunningham. 
Sir  Thomas  Timid       .        .  I     Will's  Coffee  -  Mr.  Westland  Marston. 
Colonel  Flint, a  Fire-eater  [   House  .        .  )  Mr.  R.  H.  Horne. 
Mr.  Jacob  Ton.son,  a  Bookseller  .        .        .    Mr.  Charles  Knight. 
Smart,  Valet  to  Lord  Wilmot      .        .        .    Mr.  Wilkie  Collins. 
Hodge,  Servant  to  Sir  Geoffrey  Thornside    Mr.  John  Tenniel. 
Paddy  O'Sullivan,  Mr.  Fallen's  Landlord    Mr.  Robert  Bell. 
Mr.  David  Fallen,  Gi-ub  Street  Author )  „        .  .„  . 

and  Pamphleteer j- Mr.AugustusEgg,  A.R.A. 

Ooffee-House  Loungers,  Dratvers,  Newsmen,  Watchmen,  etc.,  etc. 

Lucy,  Daughter  to  Sir  Geoffrey  Tliornside    Mrs.  Compton. 
Barbara.  Daughter  to  Mr.  Easy  .        .        .     Miss  Ellen  Chaplin. 
The    Silent    Lady  of  Deadman's   Lane 
(Lady  Thornside) 

Date  of  Play— The  Reign  of  Georg-e  I.       Scene— London. 

Time  suppo-sed  to  be  occupied,  from  the  noon  of  the  first  day  to  the 
afternoon  of  the  second. 

First  performed  on  Friday,  the  Ifith  of  May.  1851,  before  the  Queen  and 
the  Prince  Consort,  at  Devonshire  House,  Piccadilly. 

(7) 


DRAMATIS    PERSON;^ 


The  Duke  of  Middlesex 
The  Earl  of  Loftus 
Lord  Wilmot   .... 
Mr.  Shadowly  Softhead 

Hardman 

Sir  Geoffrey  Thornside 
Mr.  Goodenough  Easy 
Colonel  Flint 
Mr.  Jacob  Tonson 

Smart  

Hodge  

Paddy  O'Sullivan 
Mr.  David  Fallen 


Mr.  Stuart. 

Mr.  Braid. 

Mr.  Leigh  Murray. 

Mr.  Keeley. 

Mr.  Barry  Sullivan. 

Mr.  Benjamin  Webster. 

Mr.  Buckstone. 

Mr.  Hastings. 

Mr.  Rogers. 

Mr.  Clark. 

Mr.  Coe. 

Mr.  H.  Bedford. 

Mr.  Howe. 


Lucy Miss  Rosa  Bennett. 

Barbara Miss  Amelia  Vining. 

The  Silent  Lady  of  Dead- 
man's  Lane Mrs.  Leigh  Murray. 

First  performed  on  Saturday,  the  12th  of  February, 
1853,  at  the  Haymarket  Theatre. 


(8) 


NOT     SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM 

Or  many  sides  TO  A  CHARACTER 


ACT   I.— SCENE   I. 
Lord  Wilmot's  Apartment  in  St.  James's. 

Smart  [showing  in  a  Masked  Lady].  My  Lord  is  dressing. 
As  yoa  say,  madam,  it  is  late.  But  though  he  never 
wants  sleep  more  than  once  a  week,  yet  when  he  does 
sleep,  1  am  proud  to  say  he  sleeps  better  than  any  man 
in  the  three  kingdoms. 

Lady.  I  have  heard  much  of  Lord  Wilmot's  eccentricities 
— bat  also  of  his  generosity  and  honor. 

Smart.  Yes,  madam,  nobody  like  him  for  speaking  ill 
of  himself  and  doing  good  to  another. 

Enter  WiLMOT. 
Wil.  "And  sleepless  lovers  just  at  twelve  awake."  Any 
duels  to-day,  Smart?  No — I  see  something  more  danger- 
ous— a  woman.  [To  Smart.]  Vanish.  [Placing  a  chair 
for  Lady.]  Madam,  have  I  the  honor  to  know  you? 
Condescend  to  remove  your  vizard.  [Lady  lifts  her  mash.'] 
Very  fine  woman,  still — decidedly  dangerous.  Madam, 
allow  me  one  precautionary  observation — My  affections 
are  engaged. 

Lady.    So  I  conjectured;    for  I  have  noticed  you  from 

(9) 


10  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  i 

the  window  of  my  house,  walking  in  the  garden  of  Sir 
Geoffrey  Thornside  with  his  fair  daughter:  and  she  seems 
worthy  to  fix  the  affections  of  the  most  fickle. 

Wil.  My  dear  madam,  do  you  know  Sir  Geoffrey? 
Bind  me  to  you  for  life,  and  say  a  kind  word  to  him 
in  my  favor. 

Lady.  Can  you  need  it? — young,  high-born,  accom- 
plished  

Wil.  Sir  Geoffrey's  very  objections  against  me.  He 
says  I  am  a  fine  gentleman,  and  has  a  vehement  aversion 
to  that  section  of  mortals,  because  he  implies  that  a  fine 
gentleman  once  did  him  a  mortal  injury.  But  you  seem 
moved — dear  lady,  what  is  your  interest  in  Sir  Geofl'rey 
or  myself? 

Lady.  You  shall  know  later.  Tell  me,  did  Lucy  Thorn- 
side  ever  speak  to  you  of  her  mother? 

Wil.  Only  to  regret,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  that  she  had 
never  known  a  mother — that  lady  died,  I  believe,  while 
Lucy  was  but  an  infant. 

Lady.  When  you  next  have  occasion  to  speak  to  her,  say 
that  you  have  seen  a  friend  of  her  mother,  who  has  some- 
thing to  impart  that  may  contribute  to  her  father's  happi- 
ness and  her  own. 

Wil.  I  will  do  your  bidding  this  day,  and 

Soft,   [ivithout].  Oh,  never  mind  announcing  me,  Smart. 

Lady,  [starting  up].  I  would  not  be  seen  here — I  must 
be  gone.  Call  on  me  at  nine  o'clock  this  evening;  this  is 
my  address. 

Enter   Softhead,   as  Lord   "Wilmot   is  protecting  Lady's 
retreat^  and  stares  aghast. 

Wil.   [aside].  Do  not  fear  him — best  little  fellow  in  the 


SCENE  I]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  11 

world,  ambitious  to  be  thought  good  for  nothing,  and 
frightened  out  of  his  wits  at  the  sight  of  a  petticoat. 
[Aloud,  as  he  attends  her  out.]  Allow  me  to  escort  your 
Ladyship. 

Soft.  Ladyship! — lucky  dog.  But  then  he's  such  a 
villain! 

Wil.  \returning  and  looking  at  the  address'].  Very  mys- 
terious visitor — sign  of  Crown  and  Portcullis,  Deadman's 
Lane — a  very  funereal  residence.  Ha,  Softhead!  my  Pyla- 
des — my  second  self!     Animce 

Soft.   Enemy! 

Wil.  Dimidium  mece. 

Soft.  Dimi!  that's  the  oath  last  in  fashion,  I  warrant. 
[With  a  swagger  and  a  slap  on  the  hack.]  Dimidum  mea;, 
how  d'ye  do?  But  what  is  that  lady? — masked  too?  Oh, 
Fred,  Fred,  you  are  a  monster! 

Wil.  Monster!  ay,  horrible!  That  lady  may  well  wear 
a  mask.     She  has  poisoned  three  husbands. 

Soft.   Dinnidum  mece. 

Wil.  A  mere  harmless  gallantry  has  no  longer  a  charm 
for  me. 

Soft.  Nor  for  me  either!     [Aside.]  Never  had. 

Wil.  Nothing  could  excite  us  true  men  of  pleasure  but 
some  colossal  atrocity,  to  bring  our  necks  within  an  inch 
of  the  gallows! 

Soft.  He's  a  perfect  demon!  Alas,  I  shall  never  come 
up  to  his  mark! 

Enter  Smart. 

Smart.  Mr.  Hardman,  my  Lord! 

Wil.  Hush!  Must  not  shock  Mr.  Hardman,  the  most 
friendly,  obliging  man,  and  so  clever — will  be  a  minister 
some  day.     But  not  one  of  our  set. 


12  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  i 

Enter  Haedman. 

Hard.  And  how  fares  my  dear  Lord? 
Wil.    Bravely — and   you?     Ah!    you  men   who  live  for 
others  have  a  hard  life  of  it.      Let  me  present  you  to  my 
friend,  Mr.  Shadowly  Softhead. 

Hard.  The  son  of  the  great  clothier  who  has  such  weight 
in  the  Guild?  I  have  heard  of  you  from  Mr.  Easy  and 
others,  though  never  so  fortunate  as  to  meet  you  before, 
Mr.  Softhead. 

Soft.  Shadoioly  Softhead: — my  grandmother  was  one  of 
the  Shadowlys — a  genteel  family  that  move  about  Court. 
She  married  a  Softhead 

Wil.  A  race  much  esteemed  in  the  city. 

Hard.  A  new  picture,  my  Lord?  I'm  no  very  great 
judge — but  it  seems  to  me  quite  a  masterpiece. 

Wil.  I've  a  passion  for  art.  Sold  off  my  stud  to  buy 
that  picture.  [Aside.']  And  please  my  poor  father,  'Tis 
a  Murillo. 

Hard.  A  Murillo!  you  know  that  Walpole,  too,  has  a 
passion  for  pictures. — In  despair  at  this  moment  that  he 
can't  find  a  Murillo  to  hang  up  in  his  gallery.  If  ever 
you  want  to  corrupt  the  Prime  Minister's  virtue,  you  have 
only  to  say,  "I  have  got  a  Murillo." 

Wil.  Well,  if,  instead  of  the  pictures,  he'll  just  hang  up 
the  men  he  has  bought,  you  may  tell  him  he  shall  have 
my  Murillo  for  nothing! 

Hard.  Bought!  now  really,  my  Lord,  this  is  so  vulgar 
a  scandal  against  Sir  Robert.  Let  me  assure  your  Lord- 
ship  

Wil.  Lordship!  Plagues  on  these  titles  among  friends. 
Why,  if  the  Duke  of  Middlesex  himself — commonly  styled 
"The  Proud  Duke" — who  said  to  his  Duchess,  when  she 


SCENE  I]  NOT    so    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  13 

astouished  his  dignity  one  day  with  a  kiss,  "Madam, 
my  lirst  wife  was  a  Percy,  and  she  never  took  such 
a  liberty"; ' 

Hard.    Hal    ha!    well,    "if  the  Proad  Duke " 

Wil.  Could  deign  to  come  here,  we  woald  say,  "How 
d'ye  do,  my  dear  Middlesex!" 

Soft.  So  we  would,  Fred,  Middlesex. — Shouldn't  you  like 
to  know  a  Duke,  Mr.  Hardman  ? 

Hard.  1  have  known  one  or  two — ^n  opposition:  and  had 
rather  too  much  of  'em. 

Soft.  Too  much  of  a  Duke!  La!  I  could  never  have  eno' 
of  a  Duke  ? 

Hard.   You  may  live  to  think  otherwise. 

Enter  Smart. 
Smart.   His  grace  the  Duke  of  Middlesex. 

Enter  DuKE. 

Duke.  My  Lord  Wilmot,  your  most  obedient  servant. 
Wil.  [_Aside.  Now  then  courage!]     How  d'ye  do,  my  dear 
Middlesex? 

j9z(A;e.  "How  d'ye  do?  '    "Middlesex!"    Gracious  Heaven; 

what  will  this  age  come  to? 


'  T]iis  well-known  anecdote  of  the  Proud  Duke  of  Somerset,  and  some  other 
recorded  traits  of  the  same  eminent  personage,  liave  been  freely  applied  to  the 
character,  intended  to  illustrate  the  humor  of  pride,  in  the  comedy.  None  of 
our  Knglish  memoirs  afford,  however,  instances  of  that  infirmity  so  extravagant 
as  are  to  be  found  in  the  French.  Tallamant  has  an  anecdote  of  the  celebrated 
Duchesse  de  Longiieville,  which  enlivens  the  burlesque  by  a  bull  that  no  Irish 
imagination  ever  surpassed.  A  surgeon  having  probably  saved  her  life  by 
bleedmg  her  too  suddenly  and  without  sufficient  ceremonial — the  Duchesse  said, 
on  recovering  herself,  that  "he  was  an  insolent  fellow  to  have  bled  her — in  he?- 
presence." 


14  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  i 

Hard.  \to  Softhead].     Well,  it  may  be  the  fashion, — yet 
I  can  hardly  advise  you  to  adopt  it. 

Soft.  But  if  Fred 

Hard.  Oh!  certainly  Fred  is  an  excellent  model 


Soft.  Yet  there's  something  very  awful  in  a  live  Duke! 

Hard.  Tut!  a  mere  mortal  like  ourselves,  after  all. 

Soft.  D'ye  really  think  so! — upon  your  honor? 

Hard.  Sir,  I'm  sure  of  it, — upon  my  honor,  a  mortal! 

Duke  [turning  stiffly  rounds  and  half  rising  from  his 
chair  in  majestic  condescension^.  Your  Lordship's  friends? 
A  good  day  to  you,  gentlemen ! 

Soft.   And   a  good   day  to  yourself.     My  Lord  Du 1 

mean,  my  dear  boy! — Middlesex,  how  d'ye  do? 

Duke.  "Mid!"— "boy!"— "sex!"— "dear!"  I  must  be  in 
a  dream. 

Wil.  [to  Softhead].  Apologize  to  the  Duke.  [To  Hard- 
man.]  Then  hurry  him  off  into  the  next  room.  Allow  me 
to  explain  to  your  Grrace. 

Soft.  But  what  shall  I  say? 

Hard.   Anything  most  civil  and  servile. 

Soft.  I — I — my  Lord  Duke,  I  really  most  humbly  entreat 
your  Grace's  pardon,  I 

Duke.  Small  man,  your  pardon  is  granted,  for  your  ex- 
istence is  effaced.  So  far  as  my  recognition  is  necessary 
to  your  sense  of  being,  consider  yourself  henceforth  anni- 
hilated! 

Soft.  I  humbly  thank  your  Grace!  Annihilated:  what's 
that  ? 

Hard.  Duke's  English  for  excused.  [Softhead  ivants  to 
get  hack  to  the  DuKE.]  What!  have  not  you  had  enough 
of  the  Duke? 

Soft.  No,  now  we've  made  it  up.     I  never  bear  malice. 


SCENE  I]  NOT    so    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  15 

I  should  like  to  know  more  of  him;  one  can't  get  at  a 
Duke  every  day.  If  he  did  call  me  "small  man"  he  is 
a  Duke, — and  such  a  remarkably  fine  one! 

Hard,  [drawing  him  away].  You  deserve  to  be  haunted 
by  him!     No — no  I     Come  into  the  next  room. 

[Exeunt  through  side-door.     Softhead  very  reluctant  to 
leave  the  DuKE. 

Duke.  There's  something  portentous  in  that  small  man's 
audacity. — Quite  an  abberration  of  nature!  But  we  are 
alone  now,  we  two  gentlemen.  Your  father  is  my  friend, 
and  his  son  must  have  courage  and  honor. 

Wil.  Faith,  I  had  the  courage  to  say  I  would  call  your 
Grace  "Middlesex,"  and  the  honor  to  keep  to  my  word. 
So  I've  given  good  proof  that  I've  courage  and  honor 
enough  for  anything! 

Duke  [affectionately'].  You're  a  wild  boy.  You  have 
levities  and  follies.  But  alas!  even  rank  does  not  exempt 
its  possessor  from  the  faults  of  humanity.  Yery  strange! 
My  own  dead  brother — [ivith  a  look  of  disgust]. 

Wil.  Your  brother,  Lord  Henry  de  Mowbray?  My  dear 
Duke,  pray  forgive  me;  but  I  hope  there's  no  truth  in 
what  Tonson,  the  bookseller,  told  me  at  Will's, — that 
your  brother  had  left  behind  certain  Confessions  or  Mem- 
oirs, which  are  all  that  might  be  apprehended  from  a  man 
of  a  temper  so  cynical,  and  whose  success  in  the  gay  world 
was  so — terrible.  [Aside.  Determined  seducer  and  implaca- 
ble cut- throat!] 

Duke.  Ha!  then  those  Memoirs  exist!  My  brother  kept 
his  profligate  threat.  I  shall  be  ridiculed,  lampooned.  I, 
the  head  of  the  Mowbrays.  Powers  above,  is  nothing  on 
earth,  then,  left  sacred !  Can  you  learn  in  whose  hands 
is  this  scandalous  record? 


16  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  i 

Wil.  I  will  try.  Leave  it  to  me.  I  know  Lord  Heory 
bore  you  a  grudge  for  renouncing  his  connection,  on  ac- 
count of  his  faults — of  humanity!  I  remember  an  anecdote 
how  he  fought  with  a  husband,  some  poor  devil  named 
Morland,  for  a  boast  in  a  tavern,  which — Oh,  but  we'll  not 
speak  of  that.  We  must  get  the  Memoir.  We  gentlemen 
have  all  common  cause  here. 

Duke  [taking  his  hand].  Worthy  son  of  your  father. 
You  deserve,  indeed,  the  trust  that  I  come  to  confide 
to  you.  Listen.  His  Majesty,  King  James,  having  been 
deceived  by  vague  promises  in  the  Expedition  of  'Fifteen, 
has  very  properly  refused  to  imperil  his  rights  again,  unless 
upon  the  positive  pledge  of  a  sufficient  number  of  persons 
of  influence,  to  risk  life  and  all  in  his  service.  Myself  and 
some  others,  not  wholly  unknown  to  you,  propose  to  join 
in  a  pledge  which  our  king  with  such  reason  exacts.  Your 
assistance,  my  Lord,  would  be  valuable,  for  you  are  the  idol 
of  the  young.  Doubts  were  entertained  of  your  loyalty.  1 
have  come  to  dispel  them — a  word  will  suffice.  If  we  suc- 
ceed, you  restore  the  son  of  a  Stuart;  if  we  fail, — you  will 
go  to  the  scaffold  by  the  side  of  John  Duke  of  Middlesex! 
Can  you  hesitate?  or  is  silence  assent? 

Wil.  My  dear  Duke,  forgive  me  that  I  dismiss  with  a  jest 
a  subject  so  fatal,  if  gravely  entertained.  ^  I  have  so  many 
other  engagements  at  present  that,  just  to  recollect  them,  I 
must  keep  my  head  on  my  shoulders.  Accept  my  humblest 
excuses. 

Duke.   Accept  mine  for  mistaking  the  son  of  Lord  Loftus. 

[Goes  up  to  C.  D. 

Wil.  Lord  Loftus  again!  Stay.  Your  grace  spoke  of 
persons  not  wholly  unknown  to  me.  I  entreat  you  to 
explain. 


SCENE  1]  NOT    so    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  17 

Duke.  My  Lord,  I  have  trusted  you  with  my  own  life; 
but  to  compromise  by  a  word  the  life  of  another! — permit 
me  to  remind  your  Lordship  that  I  am  John  Duke  of 
Middlesex. 

Wil.  Can  my  father  have  entangled  himself  in  some 
Jacobite  plot?  How  shall  I  find  out? — Ha!  Hardman, 
Hardman,  1  say!  Here's  a  man  who  finds  everything 
out. 

Enter  Hardman  and  Softhead. 

Softhead,  continue  annihilated  for  the  next  five  minutes  or 
so.  These  books  will  help  to  the  cessation  of  your  exist- 
ence, mental  and  bodily.  Mr.  Locke,  on  the  Understand- 
ing, will  show  that  you  have  not  an  innate  idea;  and  the 
Essay  of  Bishop  Berkely  will  prove  you  have  not  an  atom, 
of  matter. 

Soft.  But 

Wil.  No  buts! — they're  the  fashion. 

Soft.  Oh,  if  they're  the  fashion 

[Seats  himsetf  at  the  further  end  of  the  room;  commences 
vigorously  with  Berkely  and  Locke.,  first  one  and  then 
the  other.,  and.,  after  convincing  himself  that  they  are 
above  his  cooyiprehension,  gradually  subsides  from  de- 
spair into  dozing. 
Wil.  \to  Hardman].  My  dear  Hardman,  you  are  the  only 
one  of  my  friends  whom,  in  spite  of  your  politics,  my  high 
Tory  father  condescends  to  approve  of.     Every  one  knows 
that  his  family  were  stout  cavaliers  attached  to  the  Stuarts. 
Hard,  [ciside'].   Ah!  I  guess  why  the  Jacobite  Dulj:e  has 
been  here.     I  must  look  up  David  Fallen;  he  is  in  all  the 

schemes  for  the  Stuarts.     "Well — and 

Wil.   And  the  Jacobites  are  daring  and  numerous;  and, — 


18  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  I 

in  short,  I  should  just  like  to  know  that  my  father  views 
things  with  the  eyes  of  our  more  wise  generation. 

Hard.   Why  not  ask  him  yourself? 

Wil.  Alas!  I'm  in  disgrace;  he  even  begs  me  not  to  come 
to  his  house.     You  see  he  wants  me  to  marry. 

Hard.  But  your  father  bade  me  tell  you,  he  would  leave 
your  choice  to  yourself; — would  marriage  then  seem  so 
dreadful  a  sacrifice? 

Wil.  Sacrifice!  Leave  my  cboice  to  myself?  My  dear 
father.  [Eiiigs  the  hand-bell.']  Smart!  [Enter  Smart.] 
Order  my  coach. 

Hard.  This  impatience  looks  very  like  love. 
Wil.  Pooh!  what  do  you  know  about  love? — you, — who 
love    only  ambition?      Solemn   old  jilt,    with   whom  one's 
never  safe  from  a  rival. 

Hard.  Yes; — always  safe  from  a  rival,  both  in  love  and 
ambition,  if  one  will  watch  to  detect,  and  then  scheme  to 
destroy  him. 

Wil.  Destroy — ruthless  exterminator!  May  we  never  be 
rivals  ?     Pray  keep  to  ambition. 

Hard.  \aside\.  But  ambition  lures  me  to  love.  This  fair 
Lucy  Thornside,  as  rich  as  she's  fair!  woe  indeed  to  the 
man  who  shall  be  my  rival  with  her.  I  will  call  there 
to-day. 

Wil.   Then,  you'll  see  my  father,  and  sound  him? 

Hard.  I  will  do  so. 

Wil.  You  are  the  best  friend  I  have.  If  ever  I  can  seive 
3^ou  in  return 

Hard.  Tut!  in  serving  my  friends,  'tis  myself  that  I 
serve.  [Exit. 

Wil.  [after  a  moment's  thought].  Now  to  Lucy.  Ha! 
Softhead. 


SCENE  ij  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  19 

Soft,  [tuaking  up].   Heh! 

Wil.  [aside].  I  must  put  this  suspicious  Sir  Geoffrey  on 
a  wrong  scent.  If  Softhead  were  to  make  love  to  the  girl — 
violently — desperately. 

/Soft,  [yawning].  I  would  give  the  world  to  be  tucked  up 
in  bed  now. 

Wil.  I've  a  project — an  intrigue — be  all  life  and  all  fire! 
Why,  you  tremble 

Soft.  With  excitement.     Proceed! 

Wil.  There's  a  certain  snarling,  suspicious  Sir  GTeoffrey 
Thornside,  with  a  beautiful  daughter,  to  whom  he  is  a  sort 
of  a  one-sided  bear  of  a  father — all  growl  and  no  hug. 

Soft.  I  know  him! 

Wil.  You.     How? 

Soft.  Why,  his  most  intimate  friend  is  Mr.  Groodenough 
Easy. 

Wil.  Lucy  presented  me  to  a  Mistress  Barbara  Easy. 
Pretty  girl. 

Soft.   You  are  not  courting  her? 

Wil.   Not  at  present.     Are  you  ? 

Soft.   Why,  my  father  wants  me  to  marry  her. 

Wil.  You  refused  ? 

Soft.  No.     I  did  not. 

Wil.  Had  she  that  impertinence? 

Soft.  No;  but  her  father  had.  He  wished  for  it  once; 
but  since  I've  become  d  la  mode^  and  made  a  sensation  at 
St.  James's,  he  says  that  his  daughter  shall  be  courted 
no  more  by  a  man  of  such  fashion.  Oh!  he's  low,  Mr. 
Easy:  very  good-humored  and  hearty,  but  respectable, 
sober,  and  square-toed; — decidedly  low! — City  bred!  Sol 
can't  go  much  to  his  house;  but  I  see  Barbara  sometimes 
at  Sir  Greoffrey's. 


20  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  i 

Wil.  Excellent!  Listen:  I  am  bent  upon  adding  Lucy 
Thornside  to  the  list  of  my  conquests.  But  her  churl  of 
a  father  has  already  given  me  to  understand  that  he  hates  a 
lord 

JSoft.  Hates  a  lord!     Can  such  men  be? 

Wil.  And  despises  a  man  a  la  mode. 

Soft.  I  knew  he  was  eccentric,  but  this  is  downright 
insanity. 

Wil.  Brief.  I  see  very  well  that  he'll  soon  shut  his  doors 
in  my  face,  unless  I  make  him  believe  that  it  is  not  his 
daughter  who  attracts  me  to  his  house;  so  I  tell  you  what 
we  will  do; — you  shall  make  love  to  Lucy — violent  love, 
you  rogue. 

Soft.  But  Sir  Greoffrey  knows  I'm  in  love  with  the 
other. 

Wil.  That's  over.  Father  refused  you — transfer  of  af- 
fection; natural  pique  and  human  inconstancy.  And,  in 
return,  to  oblige  you,  I'll  make  love  just  as  violent  to 
Mistress  Barbara  Easy. 

Soft.  Stop,  stop;  I  don't  see  the  necessity  of  that. 

14^*7.  Pooh!  nothing  more  clear.  Having  thus  duped 
the  two  lookers  on,  we  shall  have  ample  opportunity  to 
change  partners,  and  hands  across,  then  down  the  middle 
and  up  again. 

Enter  SMART. 

Smart.  Your  coach  waits,  my  Lord. 

Wil.  Come  along.  Fie!  that's  not  the  way  to  conduct 
a  cane.  Has  not  Mr.  Pope,  our  great  poet  of  fashion,  given 
you  the  nicest  instructions  in  that  art? 

"Sir  Plume,  of  amber  snuff-box  justly  vain, 
And  the  nice  conduct  of  a  clouded  cane." 


SCENE  I]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  21 

The  cane  does  not  conduct  you;  you  conduct  the  cane. 
Thus  with  a  debonnair  swing.  Now,  t'other  hand  on  your 
haunch;  easy,  degage — impudently  graceful;  with  the  air 
of  a  gentleman,  and  the  heart  of  a — monster!  Allonsf 
Vive   la  joie. 

Soft.  Vive  la  jatu,  indeed.     I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  to 
be  hanged.     Allonsf      Vive  la  Jaw /  [^Exeunt. 


22  BULWERS    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ll 


ACT  II.— SCENE   I. 

Library  in  the  house  o/SiR  Geoffrey  Thornside — At  the 
back  a  large  windoio  opening  nearly  to  the  ground — Side-door 
to  an  adjoining  room — Style  of  decoration^  tliat  introduced 
from  the  Dutch  in  the  reign  of  William  111.  {old-fashioned^ 
therefore .,  at  the  date  assigned  to  the  Play) — I'ich  and  heavy; 
oak  panels^  partly  gilt ;  high-backed  chairs,  etc. 

Enter  Sir  Geoffrey  and  Hodge. 

Sir  Geof.  But  I  say  the  dog  did  howl  last  night,  and  it  is 
a  most  suspicious  circumstance. 

Hodge.  Fegs,  my  dear  Measter,  if  you'se  think  that  these 
Lunnon  thieves  have  found  out  that  your  honor's  rents  were 
paid  last  woik,  mayhap  I'd  best  sleep  here  in  the  loibery. 

Sir  Geof.  ^aside'].  How  does  he  know  I  keep  my  moneys 
here  ? 

Hodge.  Zooks!  I'se  the  old  blunderbuss,  and  that  will 
boite  better  than  any  dog,  I'se  warrant! 

Sir  Geof.  [_Aside.  I  begin  to  suspect  him.  For  ten  years 
have  I  nursed  that  viper  at  my  hearth,  and  now  he  wants 
to  sleep  in  my  library,  with  a  loaded  blunderbuss,  in  case 
I  should  come  in  and  detect  him.  1  see  murder  in  his  very 
face.  How  blind  I've  been!]  Hodge,  you  are  very  good — 
very;  come  closer.  [Aside.  What  a  felon  step  he  has!] 
But  I  don't  keep  my  rents  here,  they're  all  gone  to  the 
banker's. 


SCENE  I]  NOT    so    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  23 

Hodge.  Mayhap  I'd  best  go  and  lock  up  the  plate;  or  will 
you  send  that  to  the  banker's? 

/SYr  Geof.  [Aside.  I  wonder  if  he  has  got  an  accomplice  at 
the  banker's!  It  looks  uncommonly  like  it.]  No,  I'll  not 
send  the  plate  to  the  bankers,  I'll — consider.  You've  not 
detected  the  miscreant  who  has  been  flinging  flowers  into 
the  library  the  last  four  days  ? — or  observed  any  one  watch- 
ing your  master  when  he  walks  in  his  garden,  from  the 
window  of  that  ugly  old  house  in  Deadman's  Lane? 

Hodge.  With  the  sign  of  the  Crown  and  Poor  Culley! 
Why,  it  maun  be  very  leately.  'Tint  a  week  ago  'sint 
it  war  empty. 

Sir  Geof.  [Aside.  How  he  evades  the  question! — just  as 
they  do  at  the  Old  Bailey.]  Get  along  with  you  and  feed 
the  house-dog — he^s  honest! 

Hodge.  Yes,  your  honor.  [Exit. 

Sir  Geof.  I'm  a  very  unhappy  man,  very.  Never  did 
harm  to  any  one — done  good  to  many.  And  ever  since  I 
was  a  babe  in  the  cradle  all  the  world  have  been  conspir- 
ing and  plotting  against  me.  It  certainly  is  an  exceedingly 
wicked  world;  and  what  its  attraction  can  be  to  the  other 
worlds,  that  they  should  have  kept  it  spinning  through 
space  for  six  thousand  years,  I  can't  possibly  conceive— 
unless  they  are  as  bad  as  itself;  I  should  not  wonder.  That 
new  theory  of  attraction  is  a  very  suspicious  circumstance 
against  the  planets — there's  a  gang  of  'em!  [A  hunch  of 
flowers  is  thrown  in  at  the  tviridow.]  Heaven  defend  me! 
There  it  is  again!  This  is  the  fifth  bunch  of  flowers  that's 
been  thrown  at  me  through  the  window — what  can  it  possi- 
bly mean? — the  most  alarming  circumstance. 

[Cautiously  poking  at  tJte  flowers  with  his  sword. 

Mr.     Goodenough     Easy     [ioithout'\.      Yes,     Barbara,     go 


2i  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ii 

and   find   Mistress   Lucy.     \_Eiitering.'\    How   d'ye    do,    my 
heart}^  ? 

aS'*>  Geof.   Ugh!  hearty,  indeed! 

Easy.  Why,  what's  the  matter?  what  are  you  poking 
at  those  flowers  for? — is  there  a  snake  in  them? 

Sir  Oeof.  Worse  than  that,  I  suspect!  Hem!  Good- 
enough   Easy,   I  believe  1  may  trust  you 

Easy.  You  trusted  me  once  with  five  thousand  pounds. 

Sir  Geof.  Dear,  dear,  1  forgot  that.  Bat  you  paid  me 
back.  Easy  ? 

Easy.  Of  course;  but  the  loan  saved  my  credit,  and  made 
my  fortune:  so  the  favor's  the  same. 

Sir  Geof.  Ugh!  Don't  say  that;  favors  and  perfidy  go 
together!  a  truth  1  learned  early  in  life.  What  favors  1 
heaped  on  my  foster-brother.  And  did  not  he  conspire 
with  my  cousin  to  set  my  own  father  against  me;  and 
trick  me  out  of  my  heritage? 

Easy.  But  you've  heaped  favors  as  great  on  the  son  of 
that  scamp  of  a  foster-brother;    and  he 

Sir  Geof.  Ay!  but  he  don't  know  of  them.  And  then 
there  was  my that  girl's  mother 

Easy.  Ah!  that  was  an  affliction  which  might  well  turn 
a  man,  pre-inclined  to  suspicion,  into  a  thorough  self-tor- 
mentor for  the  rest  of  his  life.  But  she  loved  you  dearly 
once,  old  friend;  and  were  she  yet  alive,  and  could  be 
proved  guiltless  after  all 

Sir  Geof  Guiltless!     Sir? 

Easy.  Well — well!  we  agreed  never  to  talk  upon  that 
subject.     Come,  come,  what  of  the  nosegay? 

Sir  Geof.  Yes,  yes,  the  nosegay!  Hark!  I  suspect  some 
design  on  my  life.  The  dog  howled  last  night.  When  I 
walk  in  the  garden,  somebody  or  something  (can't  see  what 


SCENE  I]  NOT    so    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  26 

it  is)  seems  at  the  watch  in  a  window  in  Deadman's  Lane 
— pleasant  name  for  a  street  at  the  back  of  one's  premises! 
And  what  looks  blacker  than  all,  for  five  days  running, 
has  been  thrown  in  at  me,  yonder,  surreptitiously  and 
anonymously,   what  you  call — a  nosegay! 

Easy.  Ha!  ha!  you  lucky  dog! — you  are  still  not  bad- 
looking!     Depend  on  it  the  flowers  come  from  a  woman. 

Sir  Geof.  A  woman! — my  worst  fears  are  confirmed?  In 
the  small  city  of  Placentia,  in  one  year,  there  were  no  less 
than  seven  hundred  cases  of  slow  poisoning,  and  all  by 
women.  Flowers  were  among  the  instruments  they  em- 
ployed, steeped  in  laurel  water  and  other  mephitic  prepa- 
rations. Those  flowers  are  poisoned.  Not  a  doubt  of  it! 
— how  very  awful! 

Easy.  But  why  should  any  one  take  the  trouble  to  poison 
you,  Geoffrey  ? 

Sir  Geof.  I  don't  know.  But  I  don't  know  why  seven 
hundred  people  in  one  year  were  poisoned  in  Placentia. 
Hodge!  Hodge! 

Enter  HoDGE. 

Sweep  away  those  flowers! — lock  'em  up  with  the  rest  in 
the  coal-hole.  I'll  examine  them  all  chemically,  by  and 
by,  with  precaution.  [Exit  Hodge.]  Don't  smell  at  'em; 
and,  above  all,  don't  let  the  house-dog  smell  at  'em. 

Easy.   Ha!  ha! 

Sir  Geof.  [Aside.  Ugh! — that  brute's  laughing! — no  more 
feeling  than  a  brick-bat!]  Goodenough  Easy,  you  are  a  very 
happy  man. 

Easy.  Happy,  yes.  I  could  be  happy  on  bread  and 
water. 

Sir  Geof.  And  would  toast  your  bread  at  a  conflagration, 

and  fill  your  jug  from  a  deluge!  Ugh!  I've  a  trouble  you 
Bulwer,  Vol.  XXX  *B 


26  BULWERS    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ii 

are  more  likely  to  feel  for,  as  you've  a  girl  of  your  own  to 
keep  out  of  mischief.  A  man  named  Wilmot,  and  styled 
"my  Lord,"  has  called  here  a  great  many  times;  he  pre- 
tends he  saved  my ahem! — that  is,  Lucy,  from  footpads, 

when  she  was  coming  home  from  your  house  in  a  sedan 
chair.  And  I  suspect  that  man  means  to  make  love  to 
her! 

Easy.  Egad!  that's  the  only  likely  suspicion  you've  hit 
on  this  many  a  day.  I've  heard  of  Lord  Wilmot.  Soft- 
head professes  to  copy  him.  Softhead,  the  son  of  a  trader! 
he  be  a  lounger  at  White's  and  Will's,  and  dine  with  wits 
and  fine  gentlemen!  He  lives  with  Lords! — he  mimic  fash- 
ion! No!  I've  respect  for  even  the  faults  of  a  man;  but 
I've  none  for  the  tricks  of  a  monkey. 

/SVr  Oeof.  Ugh!  you're  so  savage  on  Softhead,  I  suspect 
'tis  from  envy.  Man  and  monkey,  indeed!  If  a  ribbon  is 
tied  to  the  tail  of  a  monkey,  it  is  not  the  man  it  enrages; 
it  is  some  other  monkey  whose  tail  has  no  ribbon! 

Easy  [angrily'].  I  disdain  your  insinuations.  Do  you 
mean  to  imply  that  I  am  a  monkey?  I  will  not  praise 
myself;  but  at  least  a  more  steady,   respectable,  sober 

Sir  Geof.  Qgh!  sober!— I  suspect  you'd  get  as  drunk  as 
a  lord,  if  a  lord  passed  the  bottle. 

Easy.  Now,  now,  now.  Take  care;  you'll  put  me  in  a 
passion. 

Sir  Geof.  There— there— beg  pardon.  But  I  fear  you've 
a  sneaking  respect  for  a  lord. 

Easy.  Sir,  I  respect  the  British  Constitution  and  the 
House  of  Peers  as  a  part  of  it;  but  as  for  a  lord  in  him- 
self, with  a  mere  handle  to  his  name,  a  paltry  title!  That 
can  have  no  effect  on  a  Briton  of  independence  and  sense. 
And  that's  just  the  difference  between  Softhead  and  me. 


SCENK  I]  NOT    so    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  27 

But  as  you  don't  like  for  a  son-in-law  the  real  fine  gentle- 
man, perhaps  you've  a  mind  to  the  copy.  I  am  sure  you 
are  welcome  to  Softhead. 

/Sir  Geo/.  Ugh!  I've  other  designs  for  the  girl. 

Easy.  Have  you?  What?  Perhaps  your  favorite,  young 
Hardman? — by  the  way,  I've  not  met  him  here  lately. 

Enter  Lucy  and  Barbaea. 

Lucy.  O,  my  dear  father,  forgive  me  if  I  disturb  you; 
but  I  did  so  long  to  see  you! 

Sir  Geof.   Why? 

Lucy.   Ah,  father,  is  it  so  strange  that  your  child 

Sir  Geof.   [interrupting  her'].   Why? 

Lucy.  Because  Hodge  told  me  you'd  been  alarmed  last 
night, — the  dog  howled!  But  it  was  full  moon  last  night, 
and  he  will  howl  at  the  moon! 

Sir  Geof.  \ciside'\.  How  did  she  know  it  was  full  moon? 
I  suspect  she  was  looking  out  of  the  window 

[Enter  HoBGE,  announcing  LORD  WiLMOT  and  Mr. 
Shadowly  Softhead]. — Wilmot!  my  suspicions  are  con- 
firmed; she  tvas  looking  out  of  the  window!  This  comes 
of  Shakespeare  having  written  that  infernal  incendiary  trash 
about  Romeo  and  Juliet! 

Enter  WiLMOT  and  SoFTHEAD. 

Wil.  Your  servant,  ladies; — Sir  Geoffrey,  your  servant. 
I  could  not  refuse  Mr.  Softhead's  request  to  inquire  after 
your  health. 

Sir  Geof.  I  thank  your  lordship;  but  when  my  health 
wants  inquiring  after  I  send  for  the  doctor. 

Wil.  Is  it  possible  you  can  do  anything  so  dangerous 
and  rash  ? 

Sir  Geof  How? — how? 


28  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ii 

Wil.  Send  for  the  very  man  who  has  an  interest  in  your 
being  ill! 

Sir  Geo/,  [aside].  That's  very  true.  I  did  not  think  he 
had  so  much  sense  in  him! 

[Sir  Geoffrey  and  Easy  retire  up  the  stage. 

Wil.  I  need  not  inquire  how  jou  are,  ladies.  When  Hebe 
retired  from  the  world,  she  divided  her  bloom  between  you. 
Mistress  Barbara,  vouchsafe  me  the  honor  a  queen  accords 
to  the  meanest  of  her  gentlemen. 

[Kisses  Barbara's  hand,  and  leads  her  aside,  conversing 
in  dumb  shoiu. 

Soft.  Ah,  Mistress  Lucy,  vouchsafe  me  the  honor  which — 
[Aside.  But  she  don't  hold  her  hand  in  the  same  position]. 

Easy.  Bravo! — bravo!  Master  Softhead! — Encore! 

Soft.  Bravo! — Encore!  I  don't  understand  you,  Mr.  Easy. 

Easy.  That  bow  of  yours!  Perfect.  Plain  to  see  you 
have  not  forgotten  the  old  Dancing  Master  in  Crooked 
Lane. 

Soft.  [Aside.  I'm  not  an  inconstant  man;  but  I'll  show 
that  City  fellow  there  are  other  ladies  in  town  besides  his 
daughter.] — Dimidum  mece,  how  pretty  you  are,  Mistress 
Lucy !  [  Walks  aside  with  her. 

Sir  Geof.  That  popinjay  of  a  lord  is  more  attentive  to 
Barbara  than  ever  he  was  to  the  other. 

Easy.  Hey!  hey!     D'ye  think  so? 

Sir  Geof.  1  suspect  he  has  heard  how  rich  you  are. 

WiLMOT  and  Barbara  approachiiig . 

Bar.  Papa,  Lord  Wilmot  begs  to  be  presented  to  you. 
[Bows  interchanged.     Wilmot  offers  snuff-box.     Easy  at 
first  declines,  then  accepts — sneezes  violently;  unused 
to  snuff. 


SCENE  I]  NOT    so    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  29 

Sir  Oeof.  He!  he!  quite  clear! — titled  fortune-hunter. 
Over  head  and  ears  in  debt,  I  dare  say.  [Takes  Wilmot 
aside.']     Pretty  girl,  Mistress  Barbara!     Eh? 

Wil.  Pretty!     Say  beautiful! 

Sir  Oeof.  He !  he !  Her  father  will  give  her  fifty  thousand 
pounds  down  on  the  wedding-day. 

Wil.  1  venerate  the  British  merchant  who  can  give  his 
daughter  fifty  thousand  pounds!  What  a  smile  she  has! 
[Hooking  his  arm  into  Sir  Geoffrey's.]  I  say,  Sir  Geoffrey, 
you  see  I'm  very  shy — bashful,  indeed — and  Mr.  Easy  is 
watching  every  word  I  say  to  his  daughter:  so  embarrass- 
ing!    Couldn't  you  get  him  out  of  the  room? 

Sir  Geo/.  Mighty  bashful,  indeed!  Turn  the  oldest  friend 
I  have  out  of  my  room,  in  order  that  you  may  make  love  to 
his  daughter!  [Turns  away. 

Wil.  [to  Easy].  I  say,  Mr.  Easy.  My  double,  there,  Soft- 
head, is  so  shy — bashful,  indeed — and  that  suspicious  Sir 
Geoffrey  is  watching  every  word  he  says  to  Mistress  Lucy :  so 
embarrassing!    Do  get  your  friend  out  of  the  room,  will  you! 

Easy.  Ha!  ha!  Certainly,  my  lord.  [Aside.  I  see  he 
wants  to  be  alone  with  my  Barbara.  What  will  they  say 
in  Lombard  Street,  when  she's  my  lady?  Shouldn't  wonder 
if  they  returned  me  M.P.  for  the  City.]  Come  into  the  next 
room,  Geoffrey;  and  tell  me  your  designs  for  Lacy. 

Sir  Geof.  Oh,  very  well!  You  wish  to  encourage  that 
pampered  young — Satrap!  How  he  does  love  a  lord,  and 
how  a  lord  does  love  fifty  thousand  pounds!     He!  he! 

[Exeunt  Sir  Geoffrey  and  Easy. 

Wil.  [running  to  LuCY  and  2)ushing  aside  Softhead]. 
Return  to  your  native  allegiance.  Truce  with  the  enemy 
and  exchange  of  prisoners. 

[Leads  Lucy  aside — she  rather  grave  and  reluctant. 


30  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  n 

Bar.  So,  you'll  not  speak  to  me,  Mr.  Softhead;  words  are  too 
rare  with  you  iiue  gentlemen  to  throw  away  upon  old  friends. 

Soft.  Ahem! 

Bar.  You  don't  remember  the  winter  evenings  you  used 
to  pass  at  our  fireside  ?  nor  the  mistletoe  bough  at  Christ- 
mas? nor  the  pleasant  games  at  Blind-man's  Buflf  and  Hunt 
the  Slipper  ?  nor  the  strong  tea  I  made  you  when  you  had 
the  migraine  ?  Nor  how  I  prevented  your  eating  Banbury 
cake  at  supper,  when  you  know  it  always  disagrees  with  you? 
— But  I  suppose  you  are  so  hardened  that  you  can  eat  Ban- 
bury cake  every  night  now! — I'm  sure  'tis  nothing  to  me! 

Soft.  Those  recollections  of  one's  early  innocence  are  very 
melting!  One  renounces  a  great  deal  of  happiness  for  re- 
nown and  ambition. — Barbara! 

Bar.   Shadowly ! 

Soft.  However  one  may  rise  in  life — however  the  fashion 
may  compel  one  to  be  a  monster 

Bar.  A  monster! 

Soft.  Yes,  Fred  and  1  are  both  monsters!  Still — still — 
still — 'Ecod,  I  do  love  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  that's 
the  truth  of  it. 

WiLMOT  and  Lucy  advancing. 

Lucy.  A  friend  of  my  lost  mother's.  Oh!  yes,  dear  Lord 
Wilmot,  do  see  her  again — learn  what  she  has  to  say.  There 
are  times  when  1  so  long  to  speak  of  that — my  mother;  but 
my  father  shuns  even  to  mention  her  name.  Ah,  he  must 
have  loved  her  well! 

Wil.  What  genuine  susceptibility!  I  have  found  what 
I  have  sought  all  my  life,  the  union  of  womanly  feeling 
and  childlike  innocence. 

\Atiem2Hs  to  take  her  hand:  LuCY  withdraws  it  coyly. 


SCENE  I]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  81 

Nay,  nay,  if  the  renunciation  of  all  youthful  levities  and 
follies,  if  the  most  steadfast  adherence  to  your  side — despite 

all  the  chances  of  life,  all  temptations,  all  dangers 

[Hardman's  voice  without. 

Bar.   Hist!  some  one  coming. 

Wil.   Change  partners;  hands  across.     My  angel  Barbara! 

Enter  Hardman. 

Hard.   Lord  Wilmot  here! 

Wil.   What!  does  Ae  know  Sir  Geoffrey  ? 

Bar.  Oh,  yes.  Sir  Greoffrey  thinlcs  there's  nobody  like 
him. 

Wil.  Well  met,  my  dear  Hardman.  So  you  are  intimate 
here  ? 

Hard.  Ay;  and  you  ? 

Wil.  An  acquaintance  in  its  cradle.  Droll  man,  Sir 
Geoffrey;  I  delight  in  odd  characters.  Besides,  here  are 
other  attractions.  [Beturninj  to  Barbara. 

Hard,  [aside'].  If  he  be  my  rival!  Hum!  I  hear  from 
David  Fallen  that  his  father's  on  the  brink  of  high 
treason!     That  secret  gives  a  hold  on  the  son. 

[Joins  Lucy. 

Wil.  [to  Barbara].  You  understand;  'tis  a  compact. 
You   will  favor  my  stratagem  ? 

Bar.  Yes;  and  you'll  engage  to  cure  Softhead  of  his 
taste  for  the  fashion,  and  send  him  back  to the  City. 

Wil.  Since  you  live  in  the  City,  and  condescend  to  re- 
gard such  a  monster! 

Bar.  Why,  we  were  brought  up  together.  His  health  is 
so  delicate;  I  should  like  to  take  care  of  him.  Heigho!  I 
am  afraid  'tis  too  late,  and  papa  will  never  forgive  his  past 
follies. 


32  BULWER'S   DRAMATIC   WORKS  [act  ii 

Wil.  Yet  papa  seems  very  good-natured.  Perhaps  there's 
another  side  to  his  character  ? 

Bar.  Oh,  yes!  He  is  sucb  a  very  independent  man,  my 
papa!  and  has  such  a  contempt  for  people  who  go  out  of 
their  own  rank,  and  make  fools  of  themselves  for  the  sake 
of  example. 

Wil.  Never  fear;  I'll  ask  him  to  dine,  and  open  his  heart 
with  a  cheerful  glass. 

Bar.  Cheerful  glass!  You  don't  know  papa — the  soberest 
man!  If  there's  anything  on  which  he's  severe,  'tis  a  cheer- 
ful glass. 

Wil.  So,  so!  does  not  he  ever — get  a  little  excited? 

Bar.  Excited!  Don't  think  of  it!  Besides,  he  is  so  in 
awe  of  Sir  Greoffrey,  who  would  tease  him  out  of  his  life, 
if  he  could  but  hear  that  papa  was  so  inconsistent  as  to — 
as  to 

Wil.  As  to  get — a  little  excited?  [Aside.  These  hints 
should  suffice  me!  'G-ad,  if  I  could  make  him  tipsy  for 
once  in  a  way! — I'll  try.]  Adieu,  my  sweet  Barbara,  and 
rely  on  the  zeal  of  your  faithful  ally.  Stay;  tell  Mr.  Easy 
that  he  must  lounge  into  Will's.  I  will  look  out  for  him 
there  in  about  a  couple  of  hours.  He'll  meet  many  friends 
from  the  City,  and  all  the  wits  and  fine  gentlemen.  Allans  I 
Vive  la  joie  !     Softhead,  we'll  have  a  night  of  it! 

i^oft.  Ah!  those  were  pleasant  nights  when  one  went  to 
bed  at  half  after  ten.     Heigho! 

[As  Hardman  kisses  Lucy's  hand^  Wilmot  gayly 
hisses  Barbara's — Hardman  observes  him  with  a 
little  susficion — WiLMOT  returns  his  look  lightly 
and  carelessly — LucY   and  Barbara   conscious. 


SOExXE  I]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  33 


ACT  III.— SCENE  I. 

WiWs  Coffee-house  ;  occiqjying  the  depth  of  the  stage.  Vari- 
ous groups;  some  seated  in  boxes,  some  standing.  In  a  box 
at  the  side,  David  Fallen  seated  loriting. 

Mnter  Easy,  speaking  to  various  acquaintances  as  he  passes 
to  the  background. 
How  d'ye  do?^ — Have  you  seen  my  Lord  Wilmot? — Grood 
day. — Yes;  I  seldom  come  here;  but  I've  promised  to  meet 
an  intimate  friend  of  mine — Lord  Wilmot. — Servant,  sir! — 
looking  for  my  friend  Wilmot: — Oh!  not  come  yet! — hum 
— ha! — charming  young  man,  Wilmot:  head  of  the  mode; 
generous,  but  prudent.     I  know  all  his  affairs. 

Enter  Newsman. 
Great  news!  great  news!    Suspected  Jacobite  Plot!    Fears 
of  ministers! — Army  to  be  increased! — Great  news! 

[^Coffee-house  frequenters    gather    round    Newsman — tahe 
papers — -form   themselves   iiito  fresh  groups. 

Enter  Hardman. 
Hard.  I  have  sent  off  my  letter  to  Sir  Robert  Walpole. 
This  place,  he  must  give  it;  the  first  favor  I  have  asked. 
Hope  smiles;  I  am  at  peace  with  all  men.  Now  to  save 
Wilmot's  father.  [Approaches  the  box  at  which  David  Fal- 
len is  writing.,  and  stoops  down,  as  if  arranging  his  buckle.] 
[To  Fallen.     Hist!  Whatever  the  secret,  remember,  not  a 


34  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  m 

word  save  to  me.]  [Passes  doiun  the  stage,  and  is  eagerly 
greeted  hy  various  frequenters  of  the   Coffee-house. 

Enter  Lord  Loftus. 
Lord  Lof.  Drawer,  I  engage  this  box;  give  me  the  news- 
paper.    So — "Eumored  Jacobite  plot — " 

Enter  the  DuKE  OF  Middlesex. 

Duke.  My  dear  Lord,  I  obey  your  appointment.  But  is 
not  the  place  you  select  rather  strange? 

Lof.  Be  seated,  I  pray  you.  No  place  so  fit  for  our 
purpose.  First,  because  its  very  publicity  prevents  all 
suspicion.  We  come  to  a  coffee-house,  where  all  ranks 
and  all  parties  assemble,  to  hear  the  news,  like  the  rest. 
And,  secondly,  we  could  scarcely  meet  our  agent  anywhere 
else.  He  is  a  Tory  pamphleteer:  was  imprisoned  for  our 
sake  in  the  time  of  William  and  Mary.  If  we,  so  well 
known  to  be  Tories,  are  seen  to  confer  with  him  here, 
'twill  only  be  thought  that  we  are  suggesting  some  points 
in  a  pamphlet.     May  I  beckon  our  agent? 

Diihe.  Certainly.     He  risks  his  life  for  us;    he  shall  be 

duly  rewarded.     Let  him  sit  by  our  side [Lord  Loftus 

motions  to  David  Fallen,  who  takes  up  his  pamphlet  and 
approaches  openly.] — 1  have  certainly  seen  somewhere  before 
that  very  thin  man.  Be  seated,  sir.  Honorable  danger 
makes  all  men  equal. 

Fal.  No,  my  Lord  Duke.  I  know  not  you.  It  is  the 
Earl  I  confer  with.  [Aside.  I  never  stood  in  his  hall, 
with  lackeys  and  porters.] 

Duke.  Powers  above!  That  scarecrow  rejects  my  ac- 
quaintance!    Portentous!  [Stunned  and  astonished. 

Lof.  Observe,  Duke,  we  speak  in  a  sort  of  jargon.     Pam- 


SCEXE  I]  NOT    so    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  35 

phlet  means  messenger.     [To  Fallen  aloud.]     Well,   Mr. 
Fallen,  when  will  the  pamphlet  be  ready? 

Fal.  [aloud].  To-morrow,  my  Lord,  exactly  at  one 
o'clock. 

Duke  [still  bewildered].    I  don't  understand — 

Lof.  Hush!  Walpole  laughs  at  pamphlets,  but  would 
hang  messengers.  [Aloud.]  To-morrow,  not  to-day!  Well, 
more  time  for 

Fal.  Subscribers.  Thank  you,  my  Lord.  [Whispering.] 
Where  shall  the  messenger  meet  you? 

Lof.  At  the  back  of  the  Duke's  new  house,  there  a  quiet, 
lone  place 

Fal.  [luhispering].  By  the  old  mill  near  the  Thames? 
I  know  it.  The  messenger  shall  be  there.  The  signal 
word,  "Marston  Moor.'"  No  conversation  should  pass. 
But  who  brings  the  packet?  That's  the  first  step  of 
danger. 

Duke  [suddenly  rousing  himself,  and  tvith  dignity].  Then 
'tis  mine,  sir,  in  right  of  my  birth. 

Fal.  [aloud].  I'll  attend  to  all  your  Lordship's  sugges- 
tions; they're  excellent,  and  will  startle  this  vile  adminis- 
tration.    Many  thanks  to  your  Lordship. 

[Heturns  to  his  table  and  resumes  his  luriting.      Groups 
poiiit  and  murmur.     JACOB  ToNSON  advances. 

Easy.  That  pestilent  scribbler,  David  Fallen!  Another 
libellous  pamphlet  as  bitter  as  the  last,  I'll  swear. 

Ton.  Bitter  as  gall,  sir,  I  am  proud  to  say.  Your  ser- 
vant; Jacob  Tonson,  the  bookseller, — at  your  service.  I 
advanced  a  pound  upon  it. 

Duke.  1  will  meet  you  in  the  Mall  to-morrow,  a  quarter 
after  one  precisely.  We  may  go  now?  Powers  above! — his 
mind's  distracted — he  walks  out  before  me! 


36  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  lil 

Lof.   [drawing  hack  at  the  door'l.  I  follow  you,  Duke. 

Duke.  Mj  dear  friend — if  you  really  insist  on  it? 

[Exeunt  hoiving. 

Hard,  [as  the  Drawer  places  the  wine,  etc..,  on  the  table.] 
Let  me  offer  you  a  glass  of  wine,  Mr.  Fallen — [Aside. 
Well? — ^]  [Fallen,  ivho  has  been  loritiiig,  pushes  the  paper 
toward  liim. 

Hard,  [reading'].  "At  one  to-morrow — by  the  old  mill 
near  the  Thames — Marston  Moor — the  Duke  in  person" — 
So!  We  must  save  these  men. — I  will  call  on  you  in  the 
morning,  and  concert  the  means. 

Fal.  Yes,  save,  not  destroy,  these  enthusiasts.  I'm  re- 
signed to  the  name  of  a  hireling — not  to  that  of  a  butcher! 

Hard.  You  serve  both  Whig  and  Jacobite;  do  you  care 
then  for  either? 

Fal.  Sneering  politician!  what  has  either  cared  for  me? 
I  entered  the  world,  devoted  heart  and  soul  to  two  causes 
— the  throne  of  the  Stuart,  the  glory  of  Letters.  1  saw 
them  both  as  a  poet.  My  father  left  me  no  heritage,  but 
loyalty  and  learning.  Charles  the  Second  praised  my  verse, 
and  1  starved;  James  the  Second  praised  my  prose,  and 
I  starved;  the  reign  of  King  William — I  passed  that  in 
prison! 

Hard.  But  the  Ministers  of  Anne  were  gracious  to 
writers. 

Fal.  And  offered  me  a  pension  to  belie  my  past  life, 
and  write  Odes  on  the  Queen  who  had  dethroned  her  own 
father.  I  was  not  then  disenchanted —  I  refused.  That's 
years  ago.  If  I  starved,  I  had  fame.  Now  came  my  worst 
foes,  my  own  fellow-writers.  What  is  fame  but  a  fashion  ? 
A  jest  upon  Grub  Street,  a  rhyme  from  young  Pope,  could 
jeer  a  score  of  gray  laborers  like  me  out  of  their  last  con- 


SCENE  I]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  87 

solation.  Time  and  hunger  tame  all.  I  could  still  starve 
myself;  I  have  six  children  at  home — they  must  live. 

Hard.  [Aside.  This  man  has  genius — he  might  have  been 
a  grace  to  his  age.]     I'm  perplexed;  Sir  Robert 

Fal.  Disdains  letters — I've  renounced  them.  He  pays 
services   like  these.      Well — I  serve  him.     Leave  me;   go. 

Hard,  \rising].  Not  so  bad  as  he  seems — another  side  to 
the  character. 

Enter  Drawer  ivith  a  letter  to  Hardman. 

Hard,  [aside'].  From  Walpole!  Now  then!  my  fate — my 
love — my  fortunes! 

Easy  [peeping  over  Hardman 's  shoulder'].  He  has  got  a 
letter  from  the  Prime  Minister,  marked  "private  and  con- 
fidential." [Great  agitation.]  After  all,  he  is  a  very  clever 
fellow. 

[Coffee-house  frequenters  evince  the  readiest  assent.,  and  the 
liveliest  admiration. 

Hard,  [advancing  and  reading  the  letter].  "My  dear  Hard- 
man, — Extremely  sorry.  Place  in  question  absolutely 
wanted  to  conciliate  some  noble  family  otherwise  danger- 
ous.' Another  time,  more  fortunate.  Fully  sensible  of  your 
valuable  service. — Robert  Walpole.  ' '—Refused !  Let  him 
look  to  himself!  I  will — I  will — Alas!  he  is  needed  by  my 
country;  and  1  am  powerless  against  him.  [Seats  himself. 

Enter  WiLMOT  and  SOFTHEAD. 
Wil.  Drawer!  a  private  room — covers  for  six — dinner  in 

'  As  Walpole  was  little  inclined  to  make  it  a  part  of  his  policy  to  conciliate 
those  whose  opposition  might  be  dangerous,  while  he  was  so  fond  of  power  as 
to  be  jealous  of  talent  not  wholly  subservient  to  him,  the  reluctance  to  promote 
Mr.  Hardman,  imphed  to  the  insincerity  of  his  excuse,  may  be  supposed  to  arise 
from  his  knowledge  of  that  gentleman's  restless  ambition  and  determined  self- 
will. 


38  BULWERS    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ill 

an  hour!'  And — Drawer!  Tell  Mr.  Tonson  not  to  go  yet. 
— Softhead,  we'll  have  an  orgy  to-night,  worthy  the  days  of 
Kino;  Charles  the  Second. 

Softhead,  let  me  present  you  to  our  boon  companions; — 
my  friend,  Lord  Strongbow  (hardest  drinker  in  England); 
Sir  Johu  Bruin,  best  boxer  in  England — thrashed  Figg; 
quarrelsome  but  pleasant:  Colonel  Flint — finest  gentleman 
in  England,  and,  out  and  out,  the  best  fencer;  mild  as  a 
lamb,  but  can't  bear  contradiction,  and,  on  the  point  of 
honor,  inexorable.  Now,  for  the  sixth.  Ha,  Mr.  Easy! 
(I  ask  him  to  serve  you.)  Easy,  your  hand!  So  charmed 
that  you've  come.  You'll  dine  with  us — give  up  five  invi- 
tations on  purpose.     Do — sans  ceremonie. 

Easy.  Why,  really,  \ny  Lord,  a  plain  sober  man  like  me 
would  be  out  of  place 

Wil.  If  that's  all,  never  fear.  Live  with  us,  and  we'll 
make  another  man  of  you,  Easy? 

Easy.  What  captivating  familiarity!  Well,  I  cannot  re- 
sist your  Lordship.  [^Strutting  down  the  roorn,  and  speaking 
to  his  acquaintances.^  Yes,  my  friend  Wilmot — Lord  Wil- 
mot — will  make  me  dine  with  him.  Pleasant  man,  my 
friend  Wilmot.     We  dine  together  to-day. 

[Softhead  retires  to  the  background  with  the  other  invited 
guests;  hut  tidying  hard  to  escape  SiR  John  Bruin, 
the  boxer.,  and  COL.  Flint,  tlie  fencer .,  fastens  himself 
on  Easy  with  an  air  of  patronage. 

Wil.  [Aside.  Now  to  serve  the  dear  Duke.]  You  have 
not  yet  bought  the  memoir  of  a  laf.e  Man  of  Quality. 

Ton.  Not  yet,    my  Lord;   just   been   trying;    hard   work. 

'  It  was  not  tlio  custom  at  Will's  to  serve  dinners;  and  the  exception  in 
favor  of  my  Lord  "Wilmot  proves  his  intlueucc  as  a  man  a  la  mode. 


SCENE  ij  NOT    so    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  39 

[Wipes  his  forehead.']     But  the  person  who  has  it  is  luckily 
very  poor!  one  of  my  own  authors. 

Wil.  \Aside.  His  eye  turns  to  that  forlorn-looking  spectre 
I  saw  him  tormenting.]  That  must  be  one  of  your  authors: 
he  looks  so  lean,  Mr.  Tonson? 

Ton.  Hush;  that's  the  man!  made  a  noise  in  his  day; 
David  Fallen. 

Wil.  David  Fallen,  whose  books,  when  I  was  but  a 
schoolboy,  made  me  first  take  to  reading, — not  as  task- 
work, but  pleasure.     How  much  I  do  owe  him  I 

[Bows  very  low  to  Mr.  Fallen, 

Ton.  My  Lord  bows  very  low!  Oh,  if  your  Lordship 
knows  Mr.  Fallen,  pray  tell  him  not  to  stand  in  his  own 
light.  I  would  give  him  a  vast  sum  for  the  memoir, — two 
hundred  guineas;  on  my  honor  I  would!  [Whispering.] 
Scandal,  my  Lord;  sell  like  wild-fire. — I  say,  Mr.  Hardman, 
1  observed  you  speak  to  poor  David.  Can't  you  help  me 
here?  [Whispering.]  Lord  Henry  de  Mowbray's  Private 
Memoirs!  Fallen  has  them,  and  refuses  to  sell.  Love  Ad- 
ventures; nuts  for  the  public.  Only  just  got  a  peep  myself. 
But  such  a  confession  about  the  beautiful  Lady  Morland. 

Hard.  Hang  Lady  Morland ! 

To7i.  Besides — shows  up  his  own  brother!  Jacobite  family 
secrets.     Such  a  card  for  the  Whigs! 

Bard.   Confound  the  Whigs!     What  do  I  care? 

Wil.  I'll  see  to  it,  Tonson.  Give  me  Mr.  Fallen's  private 
address. 

Ton.  But  pray  be  discreet,  my  Lord.  If  that  knave  Curll 
should  get  wind  of  the  scent,  he'd  try  to  spoil  my  market 
with  my  own  author.     The  villain ! 

Wil.  [Aside.  Curll?  Why,  I  have  mimick'd  Curll  so 
exactly  that  Pope  himself  was  deceived,  and,  stifling  with 


40  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  hi 

rage,  ordered  me  out  of  the  room.  I  have  it!  Mr.  Curll 
shall  call  upon  Fallen  the  first  thing  in  the  morning  and 
outbid  Mr.  Tonson.  Thank  you,  sir.  [Talcing  the  addressJ] 
Moody,  my  Hardman?  some  problem  in  political  ethics? 
You  turn  away, — you  have  a  grief  you'll  not  tell  me — why, 
this  morning  I  asked  you  a  favor;  from  that  moment  I  had 
a  right  to  your  confidence,  for  a  favor  degrades  when  it  does 
not  come  from  a  friend. 

Hard.  You  charm,  you  subdue  me,  and  I  feel  for  once 
how  necessary  to  a  man  is  the  sympathy  of  another.  Your 
hand,  Wilmot.  This  is  secret — I,  too,  then  presume  to 
love.  One  above  me  in  fortune;  it  may  be  in  birth.  But 
a  free  state  lifts  those  it  employs  to  a  par  with  its  nobles. 
A  post  in  the  Treasury  of  such  nature  is  vacant;  1  have 
served  the  Minister,  men  say,  with  some  credit;  and  1  asked 
for  the  gift  without  shame — 'twas  my  due.  Walpole  needs 
the  ofiice,  not  for  reward  to  the  zealous,  but  for  bribe  to  the 
doubtful.  See  [giving  letter'],  "Noble  family  to  conciliate." 
Ah,  the  drones  have  the  honey! 

Wil.  [reading  and  returning  the  letter].  And  had  you  this 
post,  you  think  you  could  gain  the  lady  you  love? 

Hard.  At  least  it  would  have  given  me  courage  to  ask. 
Well,  well,  well, — a  truce  with  my  egotism, — you  at  least, 
my  fair  Wilmot,  fair  in  form,  fair  in  fortune,  you  need  fear 
no  rebuff  where  you  place  your  affections. 

Wil.  Why,  the  lady's  father  sees  only  demerits  in  what 
you  think  my  advantages. 

Hard.  You  mistake,  I  know  the  man  much  better  than 
you  do;  and  look,  even  now  he  is  gazing  upon  you  as 
fondly  as  if  on  the  coronet  that  shall  blazon  the  coach  of 
my  lady,  his  daughter. 

Wil.  Gazing  on  me? — where? 


SCENE  I]  NOT   SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  41 

Hard.  Yonder — Ha!    is  it  not  Mr.  Easy,   whose 

Wil.  Mr.  Easy !  you  too  taken  in !  Hark,  secret  for 
secret — 'tis  Lucy  Thornsicle  I  love. 

Hard.  You — stun  me! 

Wil.  But  what  a  despot  love  is,  allows  no  thought,  not  its 
slave!  They  told  me  below  that  my  father  had  been  here; 
have  you  seen  him  ? 

Hard.  Ay. 
Wil.  And  sounded? 

Hard.  No — better  than  that — I  have  taken  precautions. 
I  must  leave  you  now;  you  shall  know  the  result  to- 
morrow afternoon.  [Aside.  Your  father's  life  in  these 
hands — his  ransom  what  I  please  to  demand. — Ah,  joy! 
1  am  myself  once  again.  Fool  to  think  man  could  be  my 
friend!  Ah,  joy!  born  but  for  the  strife  and  the  struggle, 
it  is  only  'mid  foes  that  my  invention  is  quickened!  Half- 
way to  my  triumph,  now  that  I  know  the  rival  to  vanquish!] 
\To  Fallen.  Engage  the  messenger  at  once,  forget  not. 
Nothing  else  till  I  see  you.]  [To  Wilmot.]  Your  hand 
once  again.  To-day  I'm  your  envoy;  [Aside:  to-morrow 
your  master.]  [¥ Ai^itW^  folds  up  paiJers  and  exit. 

Wil.  The  friendliest  man  that  ever  lived  since  the  days 
of  Damon  and  Pythias:  I'm  a  brute  if  I  don't  serve  him 
in  return.  To  lose  the  woman  he  loves  for  want  of  this 
pitiful  place.  Saint  Cupid  forbid!  Let  me  consider!  Many 
sides  to  a  character — I  think  I  could  here  hit  the  right  one 
better  than  the  Hardman.  Ha!  ha!  Excellent!  My  Mu- 
rillo!  I'll  not  sell  myself,  but  I'll  buy  the  Prime  Minister! 
Excuse  me,  my  friends;  urgent  business;  I  shall  be  back 
ere  the  dinner  hour;  the  room  is  prepared.  Drawer,  show 
in  these  gentlemen:  Hardman  shall  have  his  place  and  his 
wife,  and  I'll  bribe  the  arch-briber!     Ho!  my  lackies,  my 


42  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  hi 

coach,   there!     Ha,   ha!    bribe  the  Prime  Minister!     There 
never  was  sach  a  fellow  as  1  am  for  crime  and  audacit3\ 

[Exit   WiLMOT. 

Colonel  Flint.   Your  arm,  Mr.  Softhead. 
jSoft.  And  Fred  leaves  me  in  the  very  paws  of  this  tiger! 

[JExeunt. 

SCENE   II. 
The  Library  in  Sir  Geoffrey's  House. 

Enter  SiR  Geoffrey. 

I'm  followed!  I'm  dogged!  I  go  out  for  a  walk  unsus- 
piciously; and  behind  creeps  a  step,  pit,  pat;  feline  and 
stealthy;  I  turn,  not  a  soul  to  be  seen — I  walk  on;  pit, 
pat,  stealthy  and  feline!  turn  again;  and  lo!  a  dark  form 
like  a  phantom,  muffled  and  masked — just  seen  and  just 
gone.  Ouf !  The  plot  thickens  around  me — I  can  struggle 
no  more.  [Sinks  into  a  seat. 

Enter  LuCY. 

Who  is  there? 

Lucy.   But  your  child,  my  dear  father. 

Sir  Oeof.  Child,  ugh!  what  do  you  want? 

Lucy.  Ah,  speak  to  me  gently.  It  is  your  heart  that 
1  want! 

Sir  Oeof.  Heart — I  suspect  I'm  to  be  coaxed  out  of 
something! — Eh;  eh!  Why  she's  weeping.  What  ails 
thee,  poor  darling? 

Jjticy.  So  kind.  Now  I  have  courage  to  tell  you.  I  was 
sitting  alone,  and  I  thought  to  myself — "my  father  often 
doubts  of  me — doubts  of  all" — 

Sir  Oeof.   Ugh — what  now  ? 


SCENE  II]  NOT    so    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  43 

Lucy.  'Yet  his  true  nature  is  generous — it  could  not 
always  have  been  so.  Perhaps  in  old  times  he  has  been 
deceived  where  he  loved.  Ah,  his  Lucy,  at  least,  shall 
never  deceive  him."  So  I  rose  and  listened  for  your  foot- 
step— I  heard  it — and  I  am  here,  on  your  bosom,  my  own 
father ! 

Sir  Geof.  You'll  never  deceive  me — right,  right — go  on, 
pretty  one,  go  on.  \_Aside.  If  she  should  be  my  child 
after  all?] 

Lucy.  There  is  one  who  has  come  here  lately — one  who 
appears  to  displease  you — one  whom  you've  been  led  to 
believe  comes  not  on  my  account,  but  my  friend's.  It  is 
not  so,  my  father;  it  is  for  me  that  he  comes.  Let  him 
come  no  more — let  me  see  him  no  more — for — I  feel  that 
his  presence  might  make  me  too  happy — and  that  would 
grieve  you,  O  my  father! 

[Mask  appears  at  the  ivindow  watching. 

Sir  Geof.  [Aside.  She  must  be  my  child!  Bless  her!] 
I'll  ne\^er  doubt  you  again.  I'll  bite  out  my  tongue  if 
it  says  a  harsh  word  to  you.  I'm  not  so  bad  as  I  seem. 
Grieve  me? — yes,  it  would  break  my  heart.  You  don't 
know  these  gay  courtiers — I  do! — tut — tut — tut — don't  cry. 
How  can  I  console  her? 

Lucy.  Shall  I  say? — let  me  speak  to  you  of  my  mother. 

Sir  Geof.   [reco^7^/^^] .   Ah! 

Lucy.  Would  it  not  soothe  you  to  hear  that  a  friend 
of  hers  was  in  London,  who 

Sir  Geof.  [prising .^  and  a  change  in  his  whole  deportment], 
I  forbid  you  to  speak  to  me  of  your  mother, — she  dis- 
honored me — 

Mask  [in  a  low  voice  of  emotion^.  It  is  false! 

[Mask  disappears. 


44  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ui 

Sir  Geo/,   [starting'].  Did  you  say  "false"  ? 
Lucy  [sobbing'].  No — no — but  my  heart  said  it! 
/Sir  Geo/.  Strange;  or  was  it  but  my  own  fancy? 
Lucy.  Oh,  father,  father! — How  I  shall  pity  you  if  you 
discover  that  your  suspicions  erred.     And  again  I  say — I 
feel — feel  in  my  heart  of  woman — that  the  mother  of  the 
child  who  so  loves  and  honors  you,  was  innocent. 
Hardman  s  voice  luithout.  Is  Sir  Geoffrey  at  home? 

[Lucy  starts  up,  and  exit. — Twilight. — During  the  pre- 
ceding dialog  tie  in  the  scene,  the  stage  has  gradually 
darkened. 

Enter  Haedman. 

Hard.  Sir  Geoffrey,  you  were  deceived;  Lord  Wilmot 
has  no  thought  of  Mr.  Easy's  daughter. 

Sir  Geof.  I  know  that — Lucy  has  told  me  all,  and  begged 
me  not  to  let  him  come  here  again. 

Hard,  [joyfully].  She  has!  Then  she  does  not  love  this 
Lord  Wilmot? — But  still  be  on  your  guard  against  him. 
Eemember  the  arts  of  corruption — the  emissary — the  letter 
— the  go-between — the  spy! 

Sir  Geof.  Arts!  Spy!  Ha!  if  Easy  was  right  after  all. 
If  those  flowers  thrown  in  at  the  window;  the  watch  from 
that  house  in  the  lane;  the  masked  figure  that  followed 
me;    all  bode  designs  but  on  Lucy 

Hard.  Flowers  have  been  thrown  in  at  the  window? 
You've  been  watched?  A  masked  figure  has  followed 
you?  One  question  more.  All  this  since  Lord  Wilmot 
knew  Lucy? 

Sir  Geof.   Yes,  to  be  sure;    how  blind  1  have  been! 

[Masked  figure  appears. 

Hard.    Ha!    look   yonder!     Let   me    track    this   mystery 


SCEXE  III]  NOT    so    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  45 

[Figure  disa2)pears]:  and  if  it  conceal  a  scheme  of  Lord 
Wil mot's  against  your  daughter's  honor,  it  shall  need  not 
your  sword  to  protect  her.  [Leaps  from  the  window. 

/Sir  Geo/.  What  does  he  mean  ?  Not  ??i?/ sword?  Zounds! 
he  don't  think  of  his  own!  If  he  does,  I'd  discard  him. 
I'm  not  a  coward,  to  let  other  men  risk  their  lives  in  my 
quarrel.  Served  as  a  volunteer  under  Marlbro',  at  Blen- 
heim; and  marched  on  a  cannon!  Whatever  my  faults, 
no  one  can  say  I'm  not  brave.  [iStarii?ig.'\  Ha!  bless  my 
life!  What  is  that?  I  thought  I  heard  something — I'm  all 
on  a  tremble!  Who  the  deuce  can  be  brave  when  he's  sur- 
rounded by  poisoners — followed  by  phantoms;  with  an  ugly 
black  face  peering  in  at  his  window? — Hodge,  come  and 
bar  up  the  shutters — lock  the  door — let  out  the  house-dog! 
Hodge!     Hodge!     Where  on  earth  is  that  scoundrel? 

[Exit. 

SCENE   III. 

The  /Streets — in  p)G^S2)ective^  an  Alley  inscribed  Deadman  s 
Lane — a  large,  old-fashioned,  gloomy  House  in  the  Corner, 
with  the  door  on  the  stage,  above  lohlch  is  impanelled  a  sign 
of  the  Grown  and  Portcullis.  Enter  a  Female  Figure,  masked 
— looks  round,  pauses,  and  enters  the  door. — Dark — Lights 
down. 

Enter  Hardman. 

Hard.  Ha!  enters  that  house.  I  have  my  hand  on  the 
clew!  some  pretext  to  call  on  the  morrow,  and  I  shall 
quickly  unravel  the  skein.  [Exit. 

Ooodenough  Easy  [singing  without]. — 

•'Old  King  Cole 

Was  a  jolly  old  soul, 
And  a  jolly  old  soul  was  he 


46  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iu 

[Entering,  ivith  Lord  Wilmot  and  Softhead,  Easy, 
his  dress  disordered,  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  in  a  state 
of  intoxication,  hilarious,  musical,  and  oratorical. — 
Softhead  in  a  state  of  intoxication,  abject,  remorse- 
ful, and  lachrymose — WiLMOT  sober,  but  affecting 
inebriety. 

"He  called  for  his  pipe,  and  he  called  for  his  bowl, 
And  he  called  for  his  fiddlers  three." 

Wil.  Ha!  ha!  I  imagine  myself  liise  Bacchus  between 
Silenus  and  his — ass! 

Easy.  Wilmot,  you're  a  jolly  old  soul,  and  I'll  give  you 
my  Barbara. 

Soft,  [bhihhering].  Hegh!  hegh!  liegh!  Betrayed  in  my 
tenderest  afliections. 

Wil.  My  dear  Mr.  Easy,  I've  told  you  already  that  I'm 
pre-engaged. 

Easy.  Pre-engaged!  that's  devilish  unhandsome!  But 
now  I  look  at  you,  you  do  seem  double:  and  if  you're 
double,  you're  not  single;  and  if  you're  not  single,  why 
you  can't  marry  Barbara,  for  that  woald  be  bigamy!  But 
I  don't  care;  you're  a  jolly  old  soul! 

Wil.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Quite  mistaken,  Mr.  Easy.  But 
if  you  want,  for  a  son-in-law,  a  jolly  old  soul — there  he  is! 

iSoft.  [bursting  out  afresh].   Hegh!  hegh!  hegh! 

Easy.  Hang  a  lord!  What's  a  lord?  I'm  a  respectable, 
independent  family  Briton! — Softhead,  give  us  your  fist: 
you're  a  jolly  old  soul,  and  you  shall  have  Barbara! 

iSoft.  Hegh!  hegh!  I'm  not  a  jolly  old  soul.  I'm  a  sin- 
ful, wicked,  miserable  monster!     Hegh!  hegh! 

Easy.  What's  a  monster?  I  like  a  monster?  My  girl 
shan't  go  a-begging  any  further.     You're  a  precious  good 


SCENE  ui]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  47 

fellow,  and  your  father's  an  alderman,  and  has  got  a  great 
many  votes,  and  I'll  stand  for  the  City:  and  you  shall  have 
my  Barbara. 

Soft.  I  don't  deserve  her,  Mr.  Easy;  I  don't  deserve  such 
an  angel!  I'm  not  precious  good.  Lords  and  tigers  have 
corrupted  my  innocence.  Hegh!  hegh !  I'm  going  to  be 
hanged. 

Watch,  [tvithout].  Half -past  eight  o'clock! 

Wil.  Come  along,  gentlemen ;    we  shall  have  the   watch 

on  us! 

Easy. 

"And  tlie  bands  that  guard  the  City, 
Cried — 'Rebels,  yield  or  die!'  " 

Enter  Watchman. 

Watch.   Half-past  eight  o'clock! — move  on!  move  on! 

Easy.  Order,  order!  Mr.  Vice  and  gentlemen,  here's  a 
stranger  disturbing  the  harmony  of  the  evening.  I  knock 
him  down  for  a  song.  [^Seizes  the  Watchman's  rattle.']  Half- 
past  Eight,  Esq.,  on  his  legs!  Sing,  sir;  I  knock  you  down 
for  a  song. 

Watch.  Help!  help!     Watch!  watch! 

[^Gries  loithin  "Watch!" 

Soft.  Hark!  the  officers  of  justice!  My  wicked  career  is 
approaching  its  close! 

Easy  [who  has  got  astride  on  the  Watchman's  head^  and 
persuades  himself  that  the  rest  of  the  Watchman  is  the  table^. 

Mr.  Vice  and  gentleman,  the  toast  of  the  evening what's 

the  matter  with  the  table?  'Tis  bobbing  up  and  down. 
The  table's  drunk!  Order  for  the  chair — you  table,  you! 
[TTiumps  the  Watchman  with  the  rattle.]  Fill  your  glasses — 
a  bumper  toast.     Prosperity  to  the  City  of  London — nine 


48  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  m 

times  nine — Hip,  hip,  iiurrahl  [IFaves  the  rattle  over  his 
head ;  the  rattle  springs,  and  rtiahes  all  the  noise  of  which  rat- 
tles are  ca2Jable.']  [Amazed.]  Why,  the  Chairman's  hammer 
is  as  drunk  as  the  table! 

Enter  Watchmen  ivith  staves^  springing  their  rattles. 

Wil.  \_drawing  SOFTHEAD  ojf  into  a  corner].  Hold  your 
tongue — they'll  not  see  us  here! 

Watch,  [escaping].  Murder! — murder! — this  is  the  fellow! 
— most  desperate  ruffian. 

[Easy  is  upset  by  the  escape  of  the  Watchman,  a7id,  after 
some  effort  to  remove  him  otherwise,  the  Guardians  of 
the  Night  hoist  him  on  their  shoulders. 

Easy.  I'm  being  chaired  member  for  the  City!  Freemen 
and  Electors!  For  this  elevation  to  the  post  of  member  for 
your  metropolis,  I  return  you  my  heartfelt  thanks!  Steady 
there,  steady!  The  proudest  day  of  my  life. — 'Tis  the 
boast  of  the  British  Constitution  that  &  plain,  sober  man 
like  me  may  rise  to  honors  the  most  exalted!  Long  live 
the  British  Constitution.     Hip — hip — hurrah! 

[Is  carried  off  waving  the  rattle.     SOFTHEAD  continues  to 
iveejp  in  speechless  sorrow. 

Wil.  [coming  forth].  Ha!  ha!  ha! — My  family  Briton  be- 
ing chaired  for  the  City!  "So  severe  on  a  cheerful  glass." 
Well,  he  has  chosen  a  son-in-law  drunk;  and,  egad!  he  shall 
keep  to  him  sober!     Stand  up;  how  do  you  feel? 

iSoft.  Feel/     I'm  a  ruin! 

Wil.  Faith,  I  never  saw  a  more  mournful  one!  It  must 
be  near  Sir  Geoffrey's! — Led  them  here — on  my  way  to 
this  sepulchral  appointment,  Deadman's  Lane.  Where  the 
plague  can  it   be?     Ha!  the  very  place.      Looks  like   it! 


SCENE  in]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  ^9 

How  get  rid  of  Softhead. — Ha,  ha!  I  have  it.  Softhead, 
awake!  the  night  has  begun — the  time  for  monsters  and 
their  prey.  Now  will  I  lift  the  dark  veil  from  the  mysteries 
of  London.  Behold  that  house,  Deadman's  Lane! 
Soft.  Headman's  Lane!  I'm  in  a  cold  perspiration! 
Wil.  In  that  house — under  the  antique  sign  of  Crown  and 
Portcullis — are  such  delightful  horrors  at  work  as  would 
make  the  wigs  of  holy  men  stand  on  end!  The  adventure 
is  dangerous,  but  deliriously  exciting.  Into  that  abode 
which  woman  were  lost  did  she  enter,  which  man  is  oft 
hanged  when  he  leaves — into  that  abode  will  we  plunge, 
and  gaze,  like  Macbeth,  "on  deeds  without  a  name." 

[^7iter  Masked  Figure  from  the  door  in  Deadman's  Lane, 
and   approaches   WiLMOT,    who   has,    till   noiu,   hold 
of  Softhead. 
Soft.  Hegh?  hegh!  hegh!     I  won't  gaze  on  deeds  without 
a  name!      I  won't  plunge  into  Headman's  abodes!     [Per- 
ceiving the  figure.]     Ha!     Look  there!     Hark  veil,  indeed! 
Mysteries  of  Loudon!     Horrible  apparition,  avaunt!  [Breaks 
from  WiLMOT,  ivho  releases  him  here,  and  not  till  noiu,  as  he 
sees  the  figure.]     Hegh!  hegh!  I'll  go  home  to  my  mother. 

[FJxit. 

[Mask  motions  to  WiLMOT,  ivho  follows  her  into  the  house. 

[Exeunt  Mask  and  WiLMOT  within  the  house. 


Bulwer,  Vol.  XXX 


60  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iv 


ACT   lY.— SCENE   I. 

The  Library  in  Sir  Geoffrey's  house. 

Hardman  and  Sir  Gteoffrey. 

Sir  Geof.  Yes!  I've  seea  that  you're  not  indifferent  to 
Lucy.  But  before  I  approve  or  discourage,  just  tell  me 
more  of  yourself, — your  birth,  your  fortune,  past  life.  Of 
course,  you  are  the  son  of  a  gentleman?  [Aside.']  Now 
as  he  speaks  truly  or  falsely  I  will  discard  him  as  a  liar, 
or  reward  him  with  Lucy's  hand. — He  turns  aside.  He 
will  lie! 

Hard.  Sir,  at  the  risk  of  my  hopes,  I  will  speak  the  hard 
truth.  "The  son  of  a  gentleman!"  I  think  not.  My  in- 
fancy passed  in  the  house  of  a  farmer;  the  children  with 
whom  I  played  told  me  I  was  an  orphan.  I  was  next 
dropped,  how  I  know  not,  in  the  midst  of  that  rough 
world  called  school.  "You  have  talent,"  said  the  mas- 
ter, "but  you're  idle;  you  have  no  right  to  holidays;  you 
must  force  your  way  through  life;  you  are  sent  here 
by  charity!" 

Sir   Oeof.  Charity!     There,   the  old  fool  was  wrong! 

Hard.  My  idleness  vanished — I  became  the  head  of  the 
school.  Then  I  resolved  no  longer  to  be  the  pupil  of — 
Charity.  At  the  age  of  sixteen  1  escaped,  apd  took  for 
my  motto — the  words  of  the  master — "You  must  force  your 


SCENE  m]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  51 

way  through  life."  Hope  and  pride  whispered — "You'll 
force  it!" 

Sir  Geof.  Poor  fellow!     What  then? 

Hard.  Eight  years  of  wandering,  adventure,  hardship  and 
trial.  I  often  wanted  bread — never  courasre.  At  the  end  of 
those  years  I  had  risen — to  what?  A  desk  at  a  lawyer's 
office  in  Norfolk. 

Sir  Geof.  [aside].  My  own  lawyer?  where  I  first  caught 
trace  of  him  again. 

Hard.  Party  spirit  ran  high  in  town.  Politics  began  to 
bewitch  me.  There  was  a  Speaking  Club,  and  1  spoke. 
My  ambition  rose  higher — took  the  flight  of  an  author.  I 
came  up  to  London  with  ten  pounds  in  my  pocket,  and  a 
work  on  the  "State  of  the  Nation."  It  sold  well;  the  pub- 
lisher brought  me  four  hundred  pounds.  "Vast  fortunes," 
said  he,  "are  made  in  the  South  Sea  Scheme.  Venture 
your  hundreds, — I'll  send  you  a  broker." 

Sir  Geof.   He!  he!  I  hope  he  was  clever,  that  broker! 

Hard.  Clever  indeed;  in  a  fortnight  he  said  to  me,  "Your 
hundreds  have  swelled  into  thousands.  For  this  money  I 
can  get  you  an  Annuity  on  land,  just  enough  for  a  parlia- 
mentary qualification."  The  last  hint  fired  me — I  bought 
the  Annuity.  You  now  know  my  fortune,  and  how  it  was 
made. 

Sir  Geof  \_aside'\.  He!  he!  I  must  tell  this  to  Easy:  how 
he'll  enjoy  it. 

Hard.  Not  long  after,  at  a  political  coffee-liouse,  a  man 
took  me  aside.  "Sir,"  said  he,  "you  are  Mr.  Hardman  who 
wrote  the  famous  work  on  'The  State  of  the  Nation.'  Will 
you  come  into  Parliament!  We  want  a  man  like  you  for 
our  borough;  we'll  return  you  free  of  expense;  not  a  shil- 
ling of  bribery." 


52  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iv 

Sir  Geo/.  He!  he!  Wonderful!  not  a  shilling  of  bri- 
bery. 

Hard.  The  man  kept  his  word,  and  I  came  into  Par- 
liament— inexperienced  and  friendless.  I  spoke,  and  was 
laughed  at;  spoke  again,  and  was  listened  to;  failed  often; 
succeeded  at  last.  Here,  yesterday,  in  ending  my  tale  I 
must  have  said,  looking  down,  "Can  you  give  your  child 
to  a  man  of  birth  more  than  doubtful;  and  of  fortunes  so 
humble?"  Yet  aspiring  even  then  to  the  hand  of  your 
heiress,  I  wrote  to  Sir  Eobert  for  a  place  just  vacated 
by  a  man  of  high  rank,  who  is  raised  to  the  peerage. 
He  refused. 

Sir  Geo/.  Of  course.  [Aside.]  I  suspect  he's  very  rash 
and  presuming. 

Hard.  To-day  the  refusal  is  retracted  —  the  office  is 
mine. 

Sir  Geo/,  [astonished  and  aside].  Ha!  I  had  no  hand  in 
that! 

Hard.  I  am  now  one — if  pot  of  the  highest — yet  still  one 
of  that  Government  through  which  the  Majesty  of  England 
administers  her  laws.  And,  with  front  erect,  I  say  to  you 
— as  I  would  to  the  first  peer  of  the  realm — "I  have  no 
charts  of  broad  lands,  and  no  roll  of  proud  fathers.  But 
alone  and  unfriended,  I  have  fought  my  way  against  For- 
tune. Did  your  ancestors  more  ?  My  country  has  trusted 
the  new  man  in  her  councils,  and  the  man  whom  she  honors 
is  the  equal  of  all. ' ' 

Sir  Geo/.  Brave  fellow,  your  hand.  Win  Lucy's  consent, 
and  you  have  mine.  Hush!  no  thanks!  Now  listen;  I  have 
told  you  my  dark  story — these  flowers  cannot  come  from 
Wilmot.  I  have  examined  them  again — they  are  made  up 
in  the  very  form  of  the  posies  I  had   the  folly   to  send, 


SCENE  I]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  53 

in  the  days  of  our  courtship,  to  the  wife  who  afterward 
betrayed  me 

Hard.  Be  not  so  sure  that  she  betrayed.  No  proof  but 
the  boast  of  a  profligate. 

Sir  Geof.  Who  had  been  my  intimate  friend  for  years — 
so  that,  0  torture!  I  am  haunted  with  the  doubt  whether 
my  heiress  be  my  own  child !  and  to  whom  (by  the  confes- 
sion of  a  servant)  she  sent  a  letter  in  secret  the  very  day 
on  which  I  struck  the  mocking  boast  from  the  villain's  lips, 
in  a  public  tavern.  Ah,  he  was  always  a  wit  and  a  scoffer 
• — perhaps  it  is  from  him  that  these  flowers  are  sent,  in 
token  of  gibe  and  insult.  He  has  discovered  the  man 
he  dishonored,  in  spite  of  the  change  of  name 

Hard.  You  changed  your  name  for  an  inheritance.  You 
have  not  told  me  that  which  you  formerly  bore. 

Sir  Geof.  Morland? 

Hard.  Morland — Ha — and  the  seducer's 

Sir  Geof.  Lord  Henry  de  Mowbray 

Hard.  The  reprobate  brother  of  the  Duke  of  Middlesex! 
He  died  a  few  months  since. 

Sir  Geof   [sinhirig  down'].  Died  too!     Both  dead! 

Hard,  [aside].  Tonson  spoke  of  Lord  Henry's  Memoir 
— Confession  about  Lady  Morland  in  Fallen's  hands. — I 
will  go  to  Fallen  at  once.  [Aloud.]  You  have  given  me 
a  new  clew.  1  will  follow  it  up. — When  can  I  see  you 
again? 

Sir  Geof  I'm  going  to  Easy's — you'll  find  me  there  all 
the  morning.  But  don't  forget  Lucy, — we  must  save  her 
from  Wilmot. 

Hard.  Fear  Wilmot  no  more. — This  day  he  shall  abandon 
his  suit.  [Exit  Hardman. 

Sir  Geof  Hodge! — Well — well 


54  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iv 

Enter  HoDGE. 

— Hodge,  take  your  hat  and  your  bludgeon — attend  me  to 
the  City.  [Aside.']  She'll  be  happy  with  Hardman.  Ah! 
if  she  were  my  own  child  after  all ! 

[Exeunt  Sir  G-eoffrey  and  Hodge. 

SCENE    II. 

David  Fallen's  Garret.      The  scene  resembling  that  of 
Hogarth'' s  ""Distressed  Poet.''^ 

Fal.  [opening  the  casement].  So,  the  morning  air  breathes 
fresh!  One  moment's  respite  from  drudgery.  Another  line 
to  this  poem,  my  grand  bequest  to  my  country!  Ah!  this 
description;  unfinished;  good,  good. 

"Metliinks  we  walk  iu  dreams  on  fairyland 
Where — golden  ore — lies  mix'd  with "  • 

Enter  Paddy. 

Paddy.  Please,  sir,  the  milkwoman's  score! 
Fal.  Stay,  stay; — 

"Lies  mixed  with — common  sand!" 

Eh?  Milkwoman?  She  must  be  paid,  or  the  children — I 
— I — [Fumbling  in  his  'pocket.^  and  looking  about  the  table]. 
There's  another  blanket  on  the  bed;  pawn  it, 

Paddy.  Agh,  now!  don't  be  so  ungrateful  to  your  ould 
friend,  the  blanket.     When  Mr.   Tonson,  the  great  book- 


'  As  it  would  be  obviously  presumptuous  to  assign  to  an  author  so  eminent 
as  Mr.  David  Fallen  any  verses  composed  by  a  living  writer,  the  two  lines  in 
the  text  are  taken  from  Mr.  Dryden's  "Indian  Emperor." 


SCENE  II]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  55 

shiller,  tould  me,  says  he,  "Paddy,  I'd  giv  you  two  hunder 
gould  guineas  for  the  papursh  Mr.  Fallen  has  in  his  disk!" 

Fal.  G-o,  go!  [Knock. 

Paddy.  Agh,  murther!  Who  can  that  be  distarbin'  the 
door  at  the  top  of  the  mornin'  ?  [Exit. 

Fal.  Oil!  that  fatal  Memoir!  My  own  labors  scarce  keep 
me  from  starving,  and  this  wretched  scrawl  of  a  profligate 
worth  what  to  me  were  Grolconda!  Heaven  sustain  me! 
I'm  tempted. 

Enter  Paddy,  and  Wilmot  disguised  as  Edmund  Curll. 

Paddy.  Stoop  your  head,  sir.  'Tis  not  a  dun,  sir;  'tis 
Mr.  Curll;  says  he's  come  to  outbid  Mr.  Tonson,  sir. 

Fal.  Go  quick;  pawn  the  blanket.  Let  me  think  my 
children  are  fed.  [Exit  Paddy.]  Now,  sir,  what  do  you 
want? 

Wil.  [taking  out  his  handkerchief  and  whimpering'].  My 
dear  good  Mr.  Fallen — no  offence — I  do  so  feel  for  the  dis- 
tress of  genius.  1  am  a  bookseller,  but  I  have  a  heart — and 
I'm  come  to  buy 

Fal.  Have  you  ?  this  poem?  it  is  nearly  finished — twelve 
books — twenty  years'  labor — twenty-four  thousand  lines! — 
ten  pounds,  Mr.  Curll,  ten  pounds  ? 

Wil.  Price  of  "Paradise  Lost!"  Can't  expect  such  prices 
for  poetry  nowadays,  my  dear  Mr.  Fallen.  Nothing  takes 
that  is  not  sharp  and  spicy.  Hum!  I  hear  you  have  some 
most  interesting  papers;  private  Memoirs  and  Confessions 
of  a  Man  of  Quality  recently  deceased.  Nay,  nay,  Mr. 
Fallen!  don't  shrink  back;  I'm  not  like  that  shabby  dog, 
Tonson.  Three  hundred  guineas  for  the  Memoir  of  Lord 
Henry  de  Mowbray. 

Fal.   Three  hundred  guineas  for  that  garbage! — not  ten 


56  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iv 

for  the  Poem! — and — the  cliildren!  Well!  [Takes  out  the 
Memoir  in  a  portfolio^  splendidly  hound,  ivith  the  arms  and 
supporters  of  the  Mowhrays  blazoned  on  the  sides.]  Ah! — but 
the  honor  of  a  woman — the  secrets  of  a  family — the 

Wil.  [grasping  at  the  portfolio  ivhich  FALLEN  still  detains]. 
Nothing  sells  better,  my  dear,  dear  Mr.  Fallen!  But  how, 
how  did  you  come  by  these  treasures,  my  excellent  friend  ? 

Fal.  How  ?  Lord  Henry  gave  them  to  me  himself  on  his 
death-bed. 

Wil.  Nay;  what  could  he  give  them  for,  but  to  publish, 
my  sweet  Mr.  Fallen;  no  doubt  to  immortalize  all  the  ladies 
who  loved  him. 

Fal.  No,  sir;  profligate  as  he  was,  and  vile  as  may  be 
much  in  this  Memoir,  that  was  not  his  dying  intention, 
though  it  might  be  his  first.  There  was  a  lady  he  had  once 
foully  injured — the  sole  woman  he  had  ever  loved  eno'  for 
remorse.  This  Memoir  contains  a  confession  that  might 
serve  to  clear  the  name  he  himself  had  aspersed;  and  in 
the  sudden  repentance  of  his  last  moments  he  bade  me  seek 
the  lady,  and  place  the  whole  in  her  hands,  to  use  as  best 
might  serve  to  establish  her  innocence. 

Wil.  How  could  you  know  the  lady,  my  benevolent 
friend  ? 

Fal.  I  did  not;  but  she  was  supposed  to  be  abroad  with 
her  father, — a  Jacobite  exile, — and  I,  then  a  Jacobite  agent, 
had  the  best  chance  to  trace  her. 

Wil.  And  you  did  ? 

Fal.  But  to  hear  she  had  died  somewhere  in  France. 

Wil.  Then,  of  course  you  may  now  gratify  our  intelligent 
Public  for  your  own  personal  profit.  Clear  as  day,  my 
magnanimous  friend!  Three  hundred  guineas!  I  have  'em 
here  in  a  bag! 


SCENE  n]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  57 

Fal.  Begone!     I  will  not  sell  man's  hearth  to  the  public. 

Wil.  \_Aside.  Noble  fellow!]  Gently,  gently,  my  too 
warm,  but  high-spirited  friend!  To  say  the  truth,  I  don't 
come  on  my  own  account.  To  whom,  my  dear  sir,  since 
the  lady  is  dead,  should  be  given  these  papers,  if  unfit  for 
a  virtuous,  but  inquisitive  public?  Why,  surely  to  Lord 
Henry's  nearest  relation.  I  am  employed  by  the  rich  Duke 
of  Middlesex.     Name  your  terms, 

Fal.  Ha'  ha!  Then  at  last  he  comes  crawling  to  me,  your 
proud  Duke?  Sir,  years  ago,  when  a  kind  word  from  his 
Grrace,  a  nod  of  his  head,  a  touch  of  his  hand,  would  have 
turned  my  foes  into  flatterers,  I  had  the  meanness  to  name 
him  my  patron — inscribed  to  him  a  work,  took  it  to  his 
house,  and  waited  in  his  hall  among  porters  and  lackeys — 
till,  sweeping  by  to  his  carriage,  he  said,  "Oh!  you  are  the 
poet?  take  this," — and  extending  his  alms,  as  if  to  a  beggar. 
"You  look  very  thin,  sir;  stay  and  dine  with  my  people." 
People — his  servants! 

Wil.  Calm  yourself,  my  good  Mr.  Fallen!  'tis  his  Grace's 
innocent  way  with  us  all. 

Fal.  Go!  let  him  know  what  these  Memoirs  contain! 
They  would  make  the  proud  Duke  the  butt  of  the  town — 
the  jeer  of  the  lackeys,  who  jeered  at  my  rags;  expose  his 
frailties,  his  follies,  his  personal  secrets.  Tell  him  this; 
and  then  say  that  my  poverty  shall  not  be  the  tool  of  his 
brother's  revenge:  but  my  pride  shall  not  stoop  from  its 
pedestal  to  take  money  from  him.  Now,  sir,  am  I  right  ? 
Eeply,  not  as  tempter  to  pauper;  but  if  one  spark  of  man- 
hood be  in  you,  as  man  speaks  to  man. 

Wil.  [resuming  his  own  manner],  I  reply,  sir,  as  man  to 
man,  and  gentleman  to  gentleman.  I  am  Frederick,  Lord 
Wilmot.     Pardon  this  imposture.     The  Duke  is  my  father's 


58  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iv 

friend.  I  am  here  to  obtain,  what  is  clear  that  he  alone 
should  possess.  Mr.  Fallen,  your  works  first  raised  me 
from  the  world  of  the  senses,  and  taught  me  to  believe  in 
such  nobleness  as  I  now  hope  for  in  you.  Give  me  this 
record  to  take  to  the  Duke — no  price,  sir;  for  such  things 
are  priceless — and  let  me  go  hence  with  the  sight  of  this 
poverty  before  my  eyes,  and  on  my  soul  the  grand  picture 
of  the  man  who  has  spurned  the  bribe  to  his  honor,  and 
can  humble  by  a  gift  the  great  prince  who  insulted  him 
by  alms. 

Fal.  Take  it — take  it!  [Gives  the  portfolio.]  I  am  saved 
from  temptation.     God  bless  you,  young  man! 

Wil.  Now  you  indeed  make  me  twofold  your  debtor — 
in  your  books,  the  rich  thought;  in  yourself  the  heroic 
example.  Accept  from  my  superfluities,  in  small  part 
of  such  debt,  a  yearly  sum  equal  to  that  which  your  pov- 
erty refused  as  a  bribe  from  Mr.  Tonson. 

Fal.   My  Lord — my  Lord [.Bursts  into  tears. 

Wil.  Oh,  trust  me  the  day  shall  come  when  men  will  feel 
that  it  is  not  charity  we  owe  to  the  ennoblers  of  life — it  is 
tribute!  When  your  Order  shall  rise  with  the  civilization 
it  called  into  being;  and  shall  refer  its  claim  to  just  rank 
among  freemen,  to  some  Queen  whom  even  Milton  might 
have  sung,  and  even  a  Hampden  have  died  for, 

Fal.  O  dream  of  my  youth!  My  heart  swells  and 
chokes  me! 

Fnter  Hardman. 

Hard.  What's  this  ?  Fallen  weeping  ? — Ah  !  is  not  that 
the  tyrannical  sneak,  Edmund  Curll  ? 

Wil.  [changing  his  tone  to  FALLEN  into  one  of  imperious- 
ness\.     Can't  hear  ot  the  poem,  Mr.  Fallen.     Don't  tell  me. 


SCENE  n]  NOT    so    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  59 

Ah!  Mr.  Hardman  [concealing  the  portfolio],  your  most 
humble!  Sir — sir — if  you  want  to  publish  something  smart 
and  spicy — Secret  Anecdotes  of  Cabinets — Sir  Robert  Wal- 
pole's  Adventures  with  the  Ladies — I'll  come  down  as  hand- 
somely as  any  man  in  the  Row — smart  and  spicy 

Hard.   Offer  to  bribe  ?ne,  you  insolent  rascal ! 

Wil.  Oh,  my  dear  good  Mr.  Hardman,  I've  bribed  the 
Premier  himself.     Ha!  ha!     Servant,  sir;  servant.        [Exit. 

Hard.  Loathsome  vagabond!  My  dear  Mr,  Fallen,  you 
have  the  manuscript  Memoir  of  Lord  Henry  de  Mowbray. 
I  know  its  great  value.  Name  your  own  price  to  permit 
me  just  to  inspect  it, 

Fal.  It  is  gone;  and  to  the  hands  of  his  brother,  the 
Duke. 

Hard.  The  Duke!  This  is  a  thunder-stroke!  Say,  sir: 
you  have  read  this  Memoir — does  it  contain  aught  respect- 
ing a  certain  Lady  Morland? 

Fal.  It  does.  It  confesses  that  Lord  Henry  slandered 
her  reputation  as  woman  in  order  to  sustain  his  own 
as  a  seducer.  That  part  of  the  Memoir  was  writ  on  his 
deathbed. 

Hard.   His  boast,  then 

Fal.  Was  caused  by  the  scorn  of  her  letter  rejecting 
his  suit. 

Hard.  What  joy  for  Sir  Geoffrey!     And  that  letter? 

Fal.  Is  one  of  the  documents  that  make  up  the  Memoir, 

Hard.  And  these  documents  are  now  in  the  hands  of  the 
Duke. 

Fal.   They  are.     For,  since  Lady  Morland  is  dead 

Hard.   Are  you  sure  she  is  dead  ? 

Fal.  I  only  go  by  report — 

Hard.  Report   often    lies.      [Aside.    Who  hut   Lady  Mor- 


60  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iv 

land  can  this  mask  be?  I  will  go  at  once  to  the  house  and 
clear  up  that  doubt  myself.  But  the  Duke's  appointment! 
Ah!  that  must  not  be  forgotten;  my  rival  must  be  removed 
ere  Lucy  can  be  won.  And  what  hold  on  the  Duke  him- 
self to  produce  the  Memoir,  if  I  get  the  Despatch.]  Well, 
Mr.  Fallen,  there  is  no  more  to  be  said  as  to  the  Memoir. 
Your  Messenger  will  meet  his  Grrace,  as  we  settled.  I  shall 
be  close  at  hand;  and  mark!  the  messenger  must  give  me 
the  despatch  which  is  meant  for  the  Pretender. 

[Exit  Hardman. 

Enter  Paddy. 

Paddy    Plase,  sur,   an'   I've  paid  the  milk-score 


Fal.  [interrupting  hira\.  I'm  to  be  rich — so  rich!  'Tis 
my  turn  now.  I've  shared  your  pittance,  you  shall  share 
my  plenty!  [Scene  closes. 

SCENE   III. 

The  Mall 

Enter   Softhead,    Ms    arms  folded^    and   in    deep   thought. 
He  is  forming  a   virtuous  resolution. 

Soft.  Little  did  1  foresee,  in  the  days  of  my  innocence, 
when  Mr.  Lillo  read  to  me  his  affecting  tragedy  of  George 
Barnwell,'  how  I  myself  was  to  be  led  on,  step  by  step, 
to  the  brink  of  deeds  without  a  name.  Deadman's  Lane! 
— the  funeral  apparition  in  black ! — a  warning  to  startle  the 
most  obdurate  conscience! 


'  We  have  only,  I  fear,   Mr.  Softhead's  authority  for  supposing  "George 
Barnwell"  to  be  then  written:  it  was  not  acted  till  some  years  afterward. 


SCENE  m]  NOT   SO   BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  61 

Enter  Easy,  recently  dismissed  from   the    Watch-house; 
slovenly^  skulking^  and  crestfallen. 

Easy.  Not  a  coach  on  the  stand !  A  pretty  pickle  I'm 
in  if  any  one  sees  me!  A  sober,  respectable  man  like  me, 
to  wake  in  the  watch-house,  be  kept  there  till  noon  among 
thieves  and  pickpockets,  and  at  last  to  be  fined  five  shil- 
lings for  drunkenness  and  disorderly  conduct;  all  from  din- 
ing with  a  Lord  who  had  no  thoughts  of  making  Barbara 
my  Lady  after  all! — Deuce  take  him! 

Easy  \_discovering  Softhead].  Softhead!  how  shall  I 
escape  him  ? 

Soft,  [discovering  Easy].  Easy!  What  a  fall!  I'll 
appear  not  to  remember,  Barbara's  father  should  not  feel 
degraded  in  the  eyes  of  a  wretch  like  myself!  How  d'ye 
do,  Mr.  Easy?     You're  out  early  to-day. 

Easy.  [Aside.  Ha!  He  was  so  drunk  himself  he  has 
forgotten  all  about  it.]  Yes,  a  headache.  You  were  so 
pleasant  at  dinner.     I  wanted  the  air  of  the  park. 

Soft.  Why,  you  look  rather  poorly,  Mr.  Easy! 

Easy.  Indeed,  I  feel  so.  A  man  in  business  can't  afford 
to  be  laid  up — so  I  thought,  before  I  went  home  to  the 
City,  that  I'd  Just  look  into — Ha,  ha,  a  seasoned  toper  like 
you  will  laugh  when  I  tell  you — I  thought  I'd  just  look 
into  the  'pothecary's! 

Soft.  Just  been   there  myself,  Mr.   Easy. 

[Showing  a  phial. 

Easy  [regarding  it  with  mournful  disgust].  Not  taken 
physic  since  1  was  a  boy!     It  looks  very  nasty! 

Soft.  'Tis  worse  than  it  looks!  And  this  is  called  Pleas- 
tire  f  Ah!  Mr.  Easy,  don't  give  way  to  Fred's  fascination; 
you  don't  know  how  it  ends. 

Easy.  Indeed  I  do.   [Aside.  It  ends  in  the  watch-house.] 


62  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iv 

And  I'm  shocked  to  think  what  will  become  of  yourself, 
if  you  are  thus  every  night  led  away  by  a  Lord,  who 


Soft.  Hush!  talk  of  the  devil — look!  he's  coming  up  the 
Mall! 

Easy.  He  is?  then  I'm  off;  I  see  a  sedan-chair.  Chair! 
chair!  stop! — chair!  chair!  [Exit. 

Enter  WiLMOT  and  DuKE. 

Duke  [looking  at  portfolio].  Infamous  indeed!  His  own 
base  lie  against  that  poor  lady,  whose  husband  he  wounded. 
Her  very  letter  attached  to  it.  Ha! — what  is  this? — Such 
ribaldry  on  me!  Gracious  Heaven!  My  name  thus  dragged 
through  the  dirt,  and  by  a  son  of  my  house!  Oh,  my  Lord, 
how  shall  I  thank  you? 

Wil.  Thank  not  me;  but  the  poet,  whom  your  Grace  left 
in  the  hall. 

Duke.  Name  it  not — I'll  beg  his  pardon  myself!  Adieu; 
I  must  go  home  and  lock  up  this  scandal  till  I've  leisure  to 
read  and  destroy  it;  never  again  shall  it  come  to  the  day! 
And  then,  sure  that  no  blot  shall  be  seen  in  my  'scutcheon, 
I  can  peril  my  life  without  fear  in  the  cause  of  my  king. 

[Exit  Duke. 
Wil.   [chanting]. 

"Gather  j'ou  rosebuds  while  you  may, 
For  time  is  still  a-flying. " 

Since  my  visit  last  night  to  Deadman's  Lane,  and  my  hope 
to  give  Lucy  such  happiness,  I  feel  as  if  1  trod  upon  air. 
Ah,  Softhead!  why,  you  stand  there  as  languid  and  lifeless 
as  if  you  were  capable  of — fishing! 

Soft.  I've  been  thinking 

Wil.  Thinking!  you  do  look  fatigued!  What  a  horrid 
exertion  it  must  have  been  to  you! 


SCENE  iiij  NOT    so    BAD    AS   WE    SEEM  63 

Soft.  Ah!  Fred,  Fred,  don't  be  so  hardened.  "What 
atrocity  did  you  perpetrate  last  night? 

Wil.  Last  night?  Oh,  at  Deadman's  Lane:  monstrous, 
indeed.  And  this  morning,  too,  another!  Never  had  so 
many  atrocities  on  my  hands  as  within  the  last  twenty- 
four  hours.  But  they  are  all  nothing  to  that  which  I  per- 
petrated yesterday,  just  before  dinner.  Hark!  I  bribed 
the  Prime  Minister. 

Soft.  Saints  in  Heaven! 

Wil.  Ha!  ha!  Hit  him  plump  on  the  jolly  blunt  side 
of  his  character!  I  must  tell  you  about  it.  Drove  home 
from  Will's;  put  my  Murillo  in  the  carriage,  and  off  to  Sir 
Eobert's — shown  into  his  office, — "Ah!  my  Lord  Wilmot," 
says  he,  with  that  merry  roll  of  his  eye;  "this  is  an  honor, 
what  can  I  do  for  you?" — "Sir  Eobert,"  says  I,  "we  men 
of  the  world  soon  come  to  the  point;  'tis  a  maxim  of  yours 
that  all  have  their  price." — "Not  quite  that,"  says  Sir  Rob- 
ert, "but  let  us  suppose  that  it  is."  Another  roll  of  his 
eye,  as  much  as  to  say,  "I  shall  get  this  rogue  a  bargain!" 
"So,  Sir  Robert,"  quoth  I,  with  a  bow,  "I've  come  to  buy 
the  Prime  Minister." — "Buy  me,"  cried  Sir  Robert,  and 
he  laughed  till  I  thought  he'd  have  choked;  "my  price  is 
rather  high,  I'm  afraid."  Then  I  go  to  the  door,  bid  my 
lackeys  bring  in  the  Murillo.  "Look  at  that,  if  you  please; 
about  the  mark,  is  it  not?" — Sir  Robert  runs  to  the  picture, 
his  breast  heaves,  his  eyes  sparkle:  "A  Murillo!"  cries  he, 
name  your  price!" — "I  have  named  it."  Then  he  looks  at 
me  50,  and  1  look  at  him  so ! — turn  out  the  lackeys,  place 
pen,  ink,  and  paper  before  him;  "That  place  in  the 
Treasury  just  vacant,  and  the  Murillo  is  yours." — "For 
yourself? — I  am  charmed,"  cried  Sir  Robert. — "No,  'tis 
for  a  friend  of  your  own,  who's  in  want  of  it." — "Oh,  that 


64  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iv 

alters  the  case:  I've  so  many  troubled  with  the  same  sort 
of  want." — "Yes,  but  the  Murillo  is  genuine^ — pray  what 
are  the  friends?"  Out  laughed  Sir  Kobert,  "There's  no 
resisting  you  and  the  Murillo  together!  There's  the  ap- 
pointment. And  now,  since  your  Lordship  has  bought 
me,  I  must  insist  upon  buying  your  Lordship.  Fair  play 
is  a  jewel."  Then  I  take  my  grand  holiday  air:  "Sir 
Kobert,"  said  I,  "you've  bought  me  long  ago!  you've 
given  us  peace  where  we  feared  civil  war;  and  a  Constitu- 
tional King  instead  of  a  despot.  And  if  that's  not  enough 
to  buy  the  vote  of  an  Englishman,  believe  me,  Sir  Robert, 
he's  not  worth  the  buying."  Then  he  stretched  out  his 
bluff  hearty  hand,  and  I  gave  it  a  bluff  hearty  shake.  He 
got  the  Murillo — Hardman  the  place.  And  here  stand  I, 
the  only  man  in  all  England  who  can  boast  that  he  bought 
the  Prime  Minister!  Faith,  you  may  well  call  me  hard- 
ened:   I  don't  feel  the  least  bit  of  remorse. 

Soft.   Hardman !  you  got  Hardman  the  place  ? 

Wil.  I  did  not  say  Hardman 

Soft.  You  did  say  Hardman.  But  as  'tis  a  secret  that 
might  get  you  into  trouble,  I'll  keep  it. — Yet,  Dimidum 
mece,  that's  not  behaving  much  like  a  monster? 

Wil.  Why,  it  does  seem  betraying  the  Good  Old  Cause; 
— but  if  there's  honor  among  thieves,  there  is  among  mon- 
sters; and  Hardman  is  in  the  same  scrape  as  ourselves — in 
love; — this  place  may  secure  him  the  hand  of  the  lady. 
But  mind — he's  not  to  know  I've  been  meddling  with  his 
affairs.     Hang  it!  no  one  likes  that.     Not  a  word  then 

Soft.  Not  a  word.  My  dear  Fred,  I'm  so  glad  you're  not 
so  bad  as  you  seem.  I'd  half  a  mind  to  desert  you;  but 
I  have  not  the  heart;  and  I'll  stick  by  you  as  long  as  I 
live! 


SCENE  in]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  65 

Wil.  [aside].  Whew?  This  will  never  do!  Poor  dear 
little  fellow!  I'm  sorry  to  lose  him;  but  my  word's  passed 
to  Barbara;  and  'tis  all  for  his  good.  [Aloud.']  As  long  as 
you  live?  Alas!  that  reimnds  me  of  your  little  affair.  I'm 
to  be  your  second,  you  know. 

Soft.  Second ! — affai  r ! 

Wil  With  that  fierce  Colonel  Flint.  I  warned  you 
against  him;  but  you  have  such  a  deuce  of  a  spirit.  Don't 
you  remember? 

Soft.  No;  why,  what  was  it  all  about? 

Wil.  Let  me  see — oh,  Flint  said  something  insolent  about 
Mistress  Barbara. 

Soft.  He  did?— Ruffian! 

Wil.  So — you  called  him  out!  But  if  you'll  empower  me 
in  your  name  to  retract  and  apologize 

Soft.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Insolent  to  Barbara!  Dimidum 
niece.  I'd  fight  him  if  he  were  the  first  swordsman  in 
England. 

Wil.  Why,  that's  just  what  he  is! 

Soft.  Don't  care;  I'm  his  man — though  a  dead  one. 
Wil.  [Aside.  Hang  it — he's  as  brave  as  myself,  on  that 
side  of  his  character.  I  must  turn  to  another.]  No,  Soft- 
head, that  was  not  the  cause  of  the  quarrel — said  it  to  rouse 
you,  as  you  seemed  rather  low.  The  fact  is  that  it  was  a  jest 
on  yourself,  that  you  took  up  rather  warmly. 

Soft.  Was  that  all — only  myself? 

Wil.  No  larger  subject;  and  Flint  is  such  &  good  fencer! 
*Soft.    My   dear   Fred;   I   retract,    I   apologize;   I   despise 
duelling — absurd  and  unchristianlike. 

Wil.  Leave  all  to  me.  Dismiss  the  subject.  I'll  settle 
it;  only,  Softhead,  you  see  our  set  has  very  stiff  rules  on 
such  matters.     And  if  you  apologize  to  a  bravo  like  Flint; 


6iy  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iv 

nay,  if  jou  don't  actually,  cheerfully,  rapturously  fight  him 
— though  sure  to  be  killed — I  fear  you  must  resign  all  ideas 
of  high  life! 

Soft.  Dimidum  mece,  but  low  life  is  better  than  no  life 
at  all! 

Wil.  There's  no  denying  that  proposition.  It  will  console 
you  to  think  that  Mr.  Easy's  kind  side  is  Cheapside.  And 
you  may  get  upon  one,  if  you  return  to  the  other. 

Soft.  I  was  thinking  so,  when  you  found  me — thinking 
\liesitatingly] — But  to  leave  you 

Wil.  Oh,  not  yet!  Retire  at  least  with  eclat.  Share 
with  me  one  grand,  crowning,  last,  daring,  and  desperate 
adventure. 

Soft.  Deadman's  Lane  again,  I  suppose?  I  thank  you  for 
nothing.  Fred,  I  have  long  been  your  faithful  follower. 
\_With  emotion.']  Now,  my  Lord,  I'm  your  humble  ser- 
vant.' [^Aside.  Barbara  will  comfort  me.  She's  perhaps 
at  Sir  Geoffrey's.]  \_Exit. 

Wil.  Well!  his  love  will  repay  him,  and  the  City  of 
London  will  present  me  with  her  freedom  in  a  gold  box, 
for  restoring  her  prodigal  son  to  her  Metropolitan  bosom. 
Deadman's  Lane — that  was  an  adventure,  indeed.  Lucy's 
mother  still  living — implores  me  to  get  her  the  sight  of 
her  child.     Will  Lucy  believe  me?     Will 

Enter  Smart. 

—Ha,  Smart?     Well— Well ?— You— baffled  Sir  Geoffrey? 
Smart.  He  was  out. 
Wil.  And  you  gave  the  young  lady  my  letter? 


'  A  play  upon  words  plagiarized  from  Farquhar.     The  reader  must  regret 
that  the  author  had  not  the  courage  to  plagiarize  more  from  Farquhar. 


SCENE  III]  NOT    so    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  67 

Smart.  Hist!  my  Lord,  it  so  affected  her — that — here  she 
comes.  [Exit  Smart. 

Enter  LucY. 

Lucy.  Oh,  my  Lord,  is  this  true?  Can  it  be?  A  mother 
lives!  Do  you  wonder  that  I  forget  all  else? — that  I  am 
here — and  with  but  one  prayer,  lead  me  to  that  mother! 
She  says,  too,  she  has  been  slandered — blesses  me — that 
my  heart  defended  her, — but — but — this  is  no  snare — you 
do  not  deceive  me  ! 

Wil.  Deceive  you!  Oh,  Lucy — I  have  a  sister  myself  at 
the  hearth  of  my  father. 

Lucy.  Forgive  me — lead  on — quick,  quick — oh,  mother, 
mother!  [Exeunt  LucY  and  Wilmot. 


68  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I. 
Old    Mill   near    the    Thames. 

Enter  Haedman. 

Hard.  The  Despatch  to  the  Pretender  [opening  it].  Ho! 
Wilmot  is  in  my  power;  here  ends  his  rivalry.  The  Duke's 
life,  too,  in  exchange  for  the  Memoir?  No!  Fear  is  not 
his  weak  point;  but  how  can  this  haughtiest  of  men  ever 
yield  such  memorials?  Even  admit  the  base  lie  of  his 
brother?  Still  her  story  has  that  which  may  touch  him. 
Since  I  have  seen  her,  I  feel  sure  of  her  innocence.  The 
Duke  comes;  now  all  depends  on  my  chance  to  hit  the 
right  side  of  a  character. 

Enter  DuKE  OF  Middlesex. 

Duke.  Lord  Loftus  not  here  yet!     Strange! 

Hard.  My  Lord  Duke — forgive  this  intrusion! 

Duke.  T'other  man  I  met  at  Lord  Wilmot's.  Sir,  your 
servant;  I'm  somewhat  in  haste. 

Hard.  Still  I  presume  to  delay  your  Grace;  for  it  is  on 
a  question  of  honor! 

Duke.  Honor!  that  goes  before  all!  Sir,  my  time  is  your 
own. 

Hard.  Your  Grace  is  the  head  of  a  house  whose  fame  is 
a  part  of  our  history;  it  is  therefore  that  I  speak  to  you 


SCENE  I]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  69 

boldly,  since  it  may  be  that  wrongs  were  inflicted  by  one 
of  its  members 

Duke.  How,  sir! 

Hard.  Assured  that  if  so  (and  should  it  be  still  in  your 
power),  your  Grace  will  frankly  repair  them,  as  a  duty  you 
took  with  the  ermine  and  coronet. 

Duke.  You  speak  well,  sir. — \_Aside.  "Very  much  like  a 
gentleman !] 

Hard.  Your  Grace  had  a  brother,  Lord  Henry  de  Mow- 
bray. 

Duke.   Ah !     Sir,  to  the  point. 

Hard.  At  once,  my  Lord  Duke.  Many  years  ago  a  duel 
took  place  between  Lord  Henry  and  Sir  Geoffrey  Morland 
— your  Grace  knows  the  cause. 

Duke.   Hem!  yes;  a  lady — who — who 

Hard.  Was  banished  her  husband's  home,  and  her  in- 
fant's cradle,  on  account  of  suspicions  based,  my  Lord 
Duke,  on — what  3"our  Grace  cannot  wonder  that  the  hus- 
band believed — the  word  of  a  Mowbray! 

Duke.  [J.su/e.  Villain!]  But  what  became  of  the  husband, 
never  since  heard  of?     He 

Hard.  Fled  abroad  from  men's  tongues,  and  dishonor. 
He  did  not  return  to  his  native  land  till  he  had  changed 
for  another  the  name  that  a  Mowbray  had  blighted. 
Unhappy    man!    he    lives    still. 

Duke.    And  the  lady — the  lady 

Hard.  Before  the  duel,  had  gone  to  the  house  of  her 
father,  who  was  forced  that  very  day  to  fly  the  country. 
His  life  was  in  danger. 

Duke.  How? 

Hard.  He  was  loyal  to  the  Stuarts, — and — a  Plot  was 
discovered. 


70  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 

Duhe.  Brave,  noble  gentleman!    Go  on,  sir. 

Hard.  Her  other  ties  wrenched  from  her,  his  daughter 
went  with  him  into  exile — his  stay,  his  hope,  his  all.  H'is 
lands  were  confiscated.  She  was  high-born:  she  worked 
for  a  father's  bread.  Conceive  yourself,  my  Lord  Duke, 
in  the  place  of  that  father — loyal  and  penniless;  noble; 
proscribed;  dependent  on  the  toils  of  a  daughter;  and  that 
daughter's  name  sullied  by 

Duke.  A  word? 

Hard.  From  the  son  of  that  house  to  which  all  the  chiv- 
alry of  England  looked  for  example. 

Duhe.  [Aside.  Oh,  Heaven;  can  my  glory  thus  be  turned 
to  my  shame?]     But  they  said  she  had  died,  sir. 

Hard.  When  her  father  had  gone  to  the  grave,  she  herself 
spread  or  sanctioned  that  rumor — for  she  resolved  to  die  to 
the  world.  She  entered  a  convent,  prepared  to  take  the 
novitiate — when  she  suddenly  learned  that  a  person  had 
been  inquiring  for  her  at  Paris,  who  stated  that  Lord 
Henry  de  Mowbray  had  left  behind  him  a  Memoir 

Duke.   Ah! 

Hard.  Which  acquits  her.  She  learned,  too,  the  clew  to 
her  husband — resolved  to  come  hither — arrived  six  days 
since.  No  proof  of  her  innocence  save  those  for  which 
I  now  appeal  to  your  Grace! 

Duhe.  O  pride,  be  my  succor!  [Haughtily.']  Appeal  to 
me,  sir,  and  wherefore? 

Hard.  The  sole  evidence  alleged  against  this  lady  are 
the  fact  of  a  letter  sent  from  herself  to  Lord  Henry,  and 
the  boast  of  a  man  now  no  more.  She  asserts  that  that 
letter  would  establish  her  innocence.  She  believes  that,  on 
his  deathbed,  your  brother  retracted  his  boast:  and  that 
the  Memoir  he  left  will  attest  to  its  falsehood. 


SCENE  I]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  71 

Duke.   Asserts — believes — go  on — go  on. 

Hard.  No,  my  Lord  Duke,  I  have  done.  I  know  that 
that  letter,  that  Memoir  exist:  that  they  are  now  in  your 
hands.  If  her  assertion  be  false — if  they  prove  not  her 
innocence — a  word,  nay,  a  sign,  from  the  chief  of  a  house 
so  renowned  for  its  honor,  suffices.  I  take  my  leave,  and 
condemn  her.  But  if  her  story  be  true,  you  have  heard  the 
last  chance  of  a  wife  and  a  mother  to  be  restored  to  the  hus- 
band she  loves  and  forgives,  to  the  child  who  has  grown 
into  womanhood  remote  from  her  care;  and  these  blessings 
I  pledged  her  my  faith  to  obtain,  if  that  letter,  that  Memoir, 
should  prove  that  the  boast  was 

Duhe.  A  lie,  sir,  a  lie,  a  black  lie! — the  coward's  worst 
crime — a  lie  on  the  fair  name  of  a  woman !  Sir,  this  heat, 
perhaps,  is  unseemly;  thus  to  brand  my  own  brother!  But 
if  we,  the  peers  of  England,  and  the  representatives  of  her 
gentlemen,  can  hear,  can  think  of  vile  things  done,  who- 
ever the  doer,  with  calm  pulse  and  cold  heart — perish  our 
titles;  where  would  be  the  use  of  a  Duke? 

Hard,   [aside].  A  very  bright  side  of  his  character. 

Duhe.  Sir,  you  are  right.  The  Memoir  you  speak  of  is 
in  my  hands;  and  with  it.  Lady  Morland's  own  letter. 
Much  in  that  Memoir  relates  to  myself;  and  so  galls  all 
the  pride  I  am  said  to  possess,  that  not  ten  minutes  since 
methought  I  had  rather  my  duchy  were  forfeit  than  have 
exposed  its  contents  to  the  pity  or  laugh  of  a  stranger.  I 
think  no  more  of  myself!  A  woman  has  appealed  for  her 
name  to  mine  honor  as  a  man.     Now,  sir,  your  commands? 

Hard.  No  passage  is  needed,  save  that  which  acquits 
Lady  Morland.  Let  the  Memoir  still  rest  in  your  hands. 
Condescend  but  to  bring  it  forthwith  to  my  house;  and 
may  I  hope  that  my   Lord  Loftus  may  accompany  you — 


72  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 

there   is   an   afiair   of    moment   on   which   I    would    speak 
to  you  both. 

Buhe.  Your  address,  sir;  I  will  but  return  home  for  the 
documents,  and  proceed  at  once  to  your  house.  Hurry  not; 
I  will  wait.  Allow  me  to  take  your  hand,  sir.  You  know 
how  to  speak  to  the  heart  of  a  gentleman.  [Exit. 

Hard.  \aside\.  Yet  how  ignorant  we  are  of  men's  hearts 
till  we  see  them  lit  up  by  a  passion!  This  noble  has  made 
what  is  honor  so  clear  to  my  eyes.  Let  me  pause — let  me 
think — let  me  choose!  I  feel  as  if  1  stood  at  the  crisis 
of  life. 

Enter  Softhead. 

Soft.  What  have  1  seen! — Where  go? — Whom  consult? 
Oh,  Mr.  Hardraan!  You're  a  friend  of  Lord  Wilmot's, 
of  Sir  Geoffrey's,  of  Lucy's? 

Hard.  Speak — quick — to  the  purpose. 

Soft.  On  my  way  to  Sir  Greoffrey's,  I  passed  by  a  house 
of  the  most  villanous  character.  I  dare  not  say  how  Wil- 
mot  himself  has  described  it.  [Earnestly.']  Oh,  sir,  you 
know  Wilmot!  you  know  his  sentiments  on  marriage.  I 
saw  Wilmot  and  Lucy  Thornside  enter  that  infamous 
house! — Deadman's   Laue! 

Hard,  [aside].  Deadman's  Lane?  He  takes  her  to  the 
arms  of  her  mother!  forestalls  my  own  plan,  will  reap  my 
reward.  Have  I  schemed,  then,  for  him!  No,  by  yon 
heavens! 

Soft.  I  ran  on  to  Sir  Geoffrey's — he  was  out. 

Hard,  [who  has  been  writing  in  his  tablets,  tears  out  a 
page].  Take  this  to  Justice  Kite's,  hard  by;  he  will  send 
two  special  officers,  placed  at  the  door,  Deadman's  Lane, 
to  wait  my  instructions.  They  must  go  instantly — arrive 
as  soon  as  myself.     Then  hasten  to  Mr.  Easy's;  Sir  Geof- 


SCENE  n]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  73 

trey  is  there.  Break  your  news  with  precaution,  and  bring 
him  straight  to  that  house.  Leave  the  rest  to  my  care. 
Away  with  you;    quick. 

/Soft.  I  know  he  will  kill  me!  But  I'm  right.  And 
when  I'm  right, — Dimidum  mece  /  \Exit. 

Hard.  Ho!  ho!  It  is  war!  My  choice  is  made.  1  am 
armed  at  all  points,  and  strike  for  the  victory.  [Exit. 


SCENE   11. 

Apartment  in  the  house.,  Deadmans  Lane.,  Crown  and 
Portcullis.,  very  old-fashioned  and  sombre,  faded  tapestry  on 
the  tvalls,  high  mantelpiece,  with  deep  ingles;  furniture  rude 
and  simple  ;  general  air  of  the  room  not  mean,  hut  forlorn,  as 
of  thai  in  some  house  neglected  and  little  inhabited  since  the 
days  of  Elizabeth ;  the  tapestry,  draiun  aside  at  the  back, 
shows  a  door  into  an  inner  room — LuCY  and  her  mother. — 
WiLMOT  seated. 

Lady  Thorn.  And  you  believe  me.  Dear  child — this  in- 
deed is  happiness. — Ah !  if  your  cruel  father — 

Lucy.  Hush — he  will  believe  yon,  too. 

Lady  Thorn.  No;  I  could  not  venture  into  his  presence, 
without  the  proof  that  he  had  wronged  me. 

Wil.  Oh,  that  I  had  known  before  what  interest  you  had 
in  this  Memoir! — how  can  I  recover  it  from  the  Duke! — 

Lucy.  You  will — you  must — dear — dear  Lord  Wilmot — 
you  have  restored  me  to  my  mother;  restore  my  mother 
to  her  home. 

Wil.  Ah — and  this  hand — would  you  withdraw  it  then  ? 

Lucy.  Never  from  him  who  reunites  my  parents. 
Bulwer,  Vol.  XXX  *D 


74  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 

Lady  Thorn.  Ha! — a  voice  without — steps! 
Wil.  If  it  should  be  Sir  Geoffrey — in  some  rash  violence 
he  might — retire — quick — quick  ! 

\Exeu7it  Lady  Thornside  and  Lucy  in  the  inner  room. 

Enter  Hardman. 

Hard.   Alone!     Where  is  Lucy,  my  Lord? 

Wil.   In  the  next  room  with 

Hard.   Her  mother? 

Wil.  What!  you  know? 

Hard.  I  know  that  between  us  two  there  is  a  strife,  and 
I  am  come  to  decide  it;  you  love  Lucy  Thornside. 

Wil.   Well!  I  told  you  so. 

Hard.  You  told  it,  my  Lord,  to  a  rival.  Ay,  smile.  You 
have  wealth,  rank,  fashion,  and  wit;  I  have  none  of  these, 
and  I  need  them  not.  But  I  say  to  you — that  ere  the  hand 
on  this  dial  moves  to  that  near  point  in  time,  your  love  will 
be  hopeless  and  your  suit  be  withdrawn. 

Wil.  The  man's  mad.  Unless,  sir,  you  wish  me  to  be- 
lieve that  my  life  hangs  on  your  sword,  I  cannot  quite 
comprehend  why  my  love  should  go  by  your  watch. 

Hard.  I  command  you.  Lord  Wilmot,  to  change  this  tone 
of  levity:  I  command  it  in  the  name  of  a  life  which,  I  think, 
you  prize  more  than  your  own;  a  life  that  is  now  in  my 
hands.  You  told  me  to  sound  your  father.  I  have  not 
done  so — I  have  detected 

Wil.  Detected!     Hold,  sir!  that  word  implies  crime. 

Hard.  Ay,  the  crime  of  the  great.  History  calls  it  Zeal. 
Law  styles  it  High  Treason. 

Wil.  What  do  I  hear?  Heavens! — my  father!  Sir,  your 
word  is  no  proof? 

Hard.  But  this  is!     [Producing  the  Requisition  to  the  Pre- 


SCENE  II]  NOT    so    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  75 

tender.]  'Tis  high  treason,  conspiring  to  levy  arms  against 
the  King  on  the  throne — here  called  the  Usurper.  High 
treason  to  promise  to  greet  with  banner  and  trump  a  pre- 
tender— here  called  James  the  Third.  Such  is  the  purport 
of  the  paper  I  hold — and  here  is  the  name  of  your  father. 

Wil.  [aside].  Both  are  armed  and  alone. 

[Locks  the  outer  door  by  which  he  is  standing. 

Hard,  [aside].  So,  I  guess  his  intention.  [Opens  the  win- 
dow.] Good,  the  officers  are  come. 

Wil.  What  the  law  calls  high  treason  I  know  not;  what 
the  honest  call  treason  I  know.  Traitor,  thou  who  hast  used 
the  confidence  of  a  son  against  the  life  of  a  father,  thou 
shalt  not  quit  these  walls  with  that  life  in  thy  grasp — yield 
the  proof  thou  hast  plundered  or  forged.  [Seizes  him. 

Hard.  'St!  the  officers  of  justice  are  below;  loose  thine 
hold,  or  the  life  thou  demandest  falls  from  these  hands 
into  theirs! 

Wil.  [recoiling].  Foiled!  Foiled!  How  act!  what  do? 
And  thy  son  set  yon  bloodhound  on  thy  track,  O  my 
father!  Sir,  you  say  you  are  my  rival;  I  guess  the  terms 
you  now  come  to  impose! 

Hard.  I  impose  no  terms.  What  needs  the  demand? 
Have  you  an  option?  I  think  better  of  you.  We  both 
love  the  same  woman;  I  have  loved  her  a  year,  you  a 
week;  you  have  her  father's  dislike,  I  his  consent.  One 
must  yield — why  should  1?  Eude  son  of  the  people  though 
I  be,  why  must  1  be  thrust  from  the  sunshine  because  you 
cross  my  path  as  the  fair  and  the  high-born?  What  have 
I  owed  to  your  order  or  you  ? 

Wil.  To  me,  sir?  Well,  if  to  me  you  owed  some  slight 
favor  I  should  scorn  at  this  moment  to  speak  it. 

Hard.  I  owe  favor  the  slightest  to  no  man;  'tis  my  boast. 


76  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 

Listen  still;  I  schemed  to  save  your  father,  not  to  injure. 
Had  you  rather  this  scroll  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  a 
spy?  And  now,  if  I  place  it  in  yours — save  your  name 
from  attainder,  your  fortunes  from  confiscation,  your  father 
from  the  axe  of  the  headsman — why  should  I  ask  terms? 
Would  it  be  possible  for  you  to  say,  "Sir,  1  thank  you;  and 
in  return  I  would  do  my  best  to  rob  your  life  of  the  woman 
you  love,  and  whom  I  have  just  known  a  week?"  Could 
you,  peer's  son,  and  gentleman,  thus  reply, — when,  if  1 
know  aught  of  this  grand  people  of  England,  not  a  me- 
chanic who  walks  thro'  yon  streets,  from  the  loom  to  the 
hovel,  but  what  would  cry  "Shame!"  on  such  answer? 

Wil.  Sir,  I  cannot  argue  with,  1  cannot  rival  the  man  who 
has  my  father's  life  at  his  will,  whether  to  offer  it  as  a  barter, 
or  to  yield  it  as  a  boon.  Either  way,  rivalry  between  us  is 
henceforth  impossible.  Fear  mine  no  more!  GTive  me  the 
scroll — I  depart. 

Hard.  [Aside.  His  manliness  moves  me!]  Nay,  let  me 
pray  your  permission  to  give  it  myself  to  your  father,  and 
with  such  words  as  will  save  him,  and  others  whose  names 
are  hereto  attached,  from  such  perilous  hazards  in  future. 

Wil.  In  this  too  I  fear  that  you  leave  me  no  choice;  I 
must  trust  as  I  may  to  your  honor!  but  heed  well  if 

Hard.   Menace  not;  you  doubt,  then,  my  honor? 

Wil.  [with  suppressed  passion].  Plainly,  I  do;  our  char- 
acters differ.  I  had  held  myself  dishonored  forever  if  our 
positions  had  been  reversed, — if  I  had  taken  such  confidence 
as  was  placed  in  you, — concealed  the  rivalry, — prepared 
the  scheme, — timed  the  moment, — forced  the  condition  in 
the  guise  of  benefit.  No,  sir,  no;  that  may  be  talent,  it  is 
not  honor. 

Hard.  [Aside.  This  stings!  scornful  fool   that  he  is,  not 


SCENE  u]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  77 

to  see  that  I  was  half  relenting.  And  now  1  feel  but  the 
foe!  How  sting  again?  I  will  summon  him  back  to  witness 
himself  my  triumph.]  Stay,  my  Lord!  [Writing  at  the 
table.]  You  doubt  that  I  should  yield  up  the  document 
to  your  father?  Bring  him  hither  at  once!  He  is  now  at 
my  house  with  the  Duke  of  Middlesex;  pray  them  both  to 
come  here,  and  give  this  note  to  the  Duke.  [With  a  smile.'] 
You  will  do  it,  my  Lord. 

Wil.  Ay,  indeed, — and  when  my  father  is  safe,  I  will  try 
to  think  that  I  wronged  you,  [Aside.  And  not  one  parting 
word  to — to — S'death — I  am  unmanned.  Show  such  emo- 
tion to  him — No,  no! — And  if  I  cannot  watch  over  that 
gentle  life,  why  the  angels  will!]  I — I  go,  sir, — fulfil  the 
compact;  I  have  paid  the  price.  [Exit. 

Hard.  He  loves  her  more  than  I  thought  for.  But  she? 
Does  she  love  him ?     [Goes  to  the  door.]     Mistress  Lucy! 

[Leads  forth  LucY. 

Lucy.  Lord  Wilniot  gone! 

Hard.  Nay,  speak  not  of  him.  If  ever  he  hoped  that 
your  father  could  have  overcome  a  repugnance  to  his  suit, 
he  is  now  compelled  to  resign  that  hope,  and  forever. 
[Lucy  turns  aside,  a7id  weeps  quietly.]  Let  us  speak  of 
your  parents — your  mother 

Lucy.  Oh,  yes  —  my  dear  mother  —  I  so  love  her  al- 
ready. 

Hard.  You  have  heard  her  tale!  Would  you  restore  her, 
no  blot  on  her  name,  to  the  hearth  of  your  father? 

Lucy.  Speak! — speak! — can  it  be  so? 

Hard.  If  it  cost  you  some  sacrifice  ? 

Lucy.  Life  has  none  for  an  object  thus  holy. 

Hard.  Hear,  and  decide.  It  is  the  wish  of  your  father 
that  I  should  ask  for  this  hand 


78  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 

Lucy.  No! — no! 

Hard.  Is  the  sacrifice  so  hard?  Wait  and  hear  the  atone- 
ment. You  come  from  the  stolen  embrace  of  a  mother;  I 
will  make  that  mother  the  pride  of  your  home.  You  have 
yearned  for  the  love  of  a  father;  I  will  break  down  the  wall 
between  yourself  and  his  heart — I  will  dispel  all  the  clouds 
that  have  darkened  his  life. 

Lucy.   You  will — you  will!     O  blessings  upon  you! 

Hard.   Those  blessings  this  hand  can  confer! 

Lucy.  But — but — the  heart — the  heart — that  does  not  go 
with  the  hand. 

Hard.  Later,  it  will.  I  only  pray  for  a  trial.  I  ask  but 
to  conquer  that  heart,  not  to  break  it.  Your  father  will 
soon  be  here — every  moment  I  expect  him.  He  comes  in 
the  full  force  of  suspicion — deeming  you  lured  here  by 
Wilmot — fearing  (pardon  the  vile  word)  your  dishonor. 
How  explain?  You  cannot  speak  of  your  mother  till  I 
first  prove  her  guiltless.  Could  they  meet  till  I  do,  words 
would  pass  that  would  make  even  union  hereafter  too 
bitter  to  her  pride  as  a  woman.  Give  me  the  power  at 
once  to  destroy  suspicion,  remove  fear,  delay  other  ex- 
planations. Let  me  speak — let  me  act  as  your  betrothed, 
your  accepted.  Hark!  voices  below — your  father  comes! 
• — I  have  no  time  to  plead;  excuse  what  is  harsh — seems 
ungenerous 

Sir  Oeof.   [wiihoat].   Out  of  my  way! — loose  my  sword! 

Lucy.  Oh,  save  my  mother!  —  Let  him  not  see  my 
mother. 

Hard.  Grant  me  this  trial — pledge  this  hand  now — retract 
hereafter  if  you  will.  Your  mother's  name — your  parents' 
reunion!     Ay  or  no! — will  you  pledge  it? 

Lucy.   Can  you  doubt  their  child's  answer?     I  pledge  it! 


SCENE  n]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  79 

Enter  SiR  Gteoffrey,  struggling  from  Easy,  Softhead, 

Barbara. 

Sir  Oeof.  Where  is  he?  where  is  this  villain?  let  me 
get  at  him!  What,  what,  gone?  [Falling  on  Hardman's 
breast.l  Oh,  Hardman!  You  came,  you  came!  I  dare  not 
look  at  her  yet.     Is  she  saved? 

Hard.  Yonr  daughter  is  innocent  in  thought  as  in  deed 
— I  speak  in  the  name  of  the  rights  she  has  given  me; 
you  permitted  me  to  ask  for  her  hand;  and  here  she  has 
pledged  it! 

iSir  Geo/.  0  my  child!  my  child!  I  never  called  you 
that  name  before.  Did  I?  Hush!  I  know  now  that  thou 
art  my  child;  know  it  by  my  anguish;  know  it  by  my 
joy.  Who  could  wring  from  me  tears  like  these,  but  a 
child! 

Easy.  But  how  is  it  all,  Mr.  Hardman?  you  know  every- 
thing! That  fool  Softhead,  with  his  cock-and-bull  story, 
frightened  us  out  of  our  wits. 

Soft.  That's  the  thanks  1  get!  How  is  it  all,  Mr.  Hard- 
man  ? 

Sir  Oeof.  Ugh,  what  so  clear?  He  came  here — he  saved 
her!  My  child  was  grateful.  Approach,  Hardman,  near, 
near.  Forgive  me,  if  your  childhood  was  lonely;  forgive 
me,  if  you  seemed  so  unfriended.  Your  father  made  me 
promise  that  you  should  not  know  the  temptations  that 
he  thought  had  corrupted  himself, — should  not  know  of 
my  favors,  to  be  galled  by  what  he  called  my  suspicions, 
— should  not  feel  the  yoke  of  dependence; — should  believe 
that  you  forced  your  own  way  through  the  world — till  it 
was  made.  Now  it  is  so.  Ah,  not  in  vain  did  I  pardon 
him  his  wrongs  against  me;  not  in  vain  fulfil  that  sad 
promise   which    gave    a    smile    to    his   lips   in   dying;    not 


'80  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 

in  vain  have  I  bestowed  benefits  on  you.  You  have 
saved  —  I  know  it — I  feel  it;  saved  from  infamy  —  my 
child. 

Lucy.  Hush,  sir,  hush! 

[Throws  herself  into  BARBARA'S  arms. 

Hard.  My  father?  Benefits?  You  smile,  Mr.  Easy. 
What  means  he?  No  man  on  this  earth  ever  bestowed 
benefits  on  me! 

Easy.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Nay,  excuse  me;  but  when  I  think 
that  that's  said  by  a  clever  fellow  like  you — ha!  ha! — the 
jest  is  too  good;  as  if  any  one  ever  drove  a  coach  through 
this  world  but  what  some  other  one  built  the  carriage, 
or  harnessed  the  horses!  Why,  who  gave  you  the  educa- 
tion that  helped  to  make  you  what  you  are?  Who  slyly 
paid  Tonson,  the  publisher,  to  bring  out  the  work  that 
first  raised  you  into  notice?  Who  sent  you  the  broker 
with  the  tale  of  the  South  Sea  Scheme?  From  whose 
purse  came  the  sum  that  bought  your  annuity?  Whose 
land  does  the  annuity  burthen  ?  Who  told  Fleece'em,  the 
borough  monger,  to  offer  you  a  seat  in  Parliament?  Who 
paid  for  the  election  that  did  not  cost  you  a  shilling? — 
who,  but  my  suspicious,  ill-tempered,  good-hearted  friend 
there?  And  you  are  the  son  of  his  foster-brother,  the  man 
who  first  wronged  and  betrayed  him! 

Soft.  And  this  is  the  gentleman  who  knows  everybody 
and  everything?  Did  not  even  know  his  own  father! 
Ha!    why  he's  been  quite  a  taken-in!     Ha!    ha! 

Easy.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Hard.  And  all  the  while  I  thought  I  was  standing  aj^art 
from  others, — needing  none;  served  by  none;  mastering 
men;  molding  them, — the  men  whom  my  father  had 
wronged   went  before  me  with   noiseless   beneficence,   and 


SCENE  U]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  81 

opened  my  path  through  the  mountain  I  fancied  this  right 
hand  had  hewn! 

Sir  Geo/.  Tut!  I  did  but  level  the  ground,  till  you  were 
strong  eno'  to  rise  of  yourself;  1  did  not  give  you  the  post 
that  you  named  with  so  manly  a  pride;  /did  not  raise  you 
to  the  councils  of  your  country  as  the  "Equal  of  All!" 

jSoft.  No!  for  that  you'll  thank  Fred.  He  bribed  the 
Prime  Minister  with  his  favorite  Murillo.  He  said  you 
wanted  the  post  to  win  the  lady  you  loved.  Dimidum 
mei, — I  think  you  might  have  told  him  what  lady  it 
was. 

Rard.  So!  Wilmot! — It  needed  but  this! 

Easy.  Pooh,  Mr.  Softhead!  Sir  Geoffrey  would  never 
consent  to  a  lord.  Quite  right.  Practical,  steady  fellow 
is  Mr.  Hardman;  and  as  to  his  father,  a  disreputable  con- 
nection— quite  right  not  to  know  him!  All  you  want, 
Geoffrey,    is   to  secure  Lucy's   happiness. 

Sir  Geo/.   All!     That,  now,  is  his  charge. 

Hard.  I  accept  it.  But  first  I  secure  yours,  O  my  bene- 
factor! This  house,  in  which  you  feared  to  meet  infamy, 
is  the  home  of  sorrow  and  virtue;  the  home  of  a  woman 
unsullied,  but  slandered, — of  her  who,  loving  you  still,  fol- 
lowed your  footsteps;  watched  you  night  and  day  from  yon 
windows;  sent  you  those  flowers,  the  tokens  of  innocence 
and  youth;  in  romance,  it  is  true — the  romance  only  known 
to  woman — the  romance  only  known  to  the  pure!  Lord 
Wilmot  is  guiltless!  He  led  your  child  to  the  arms  of 
a  mother! 

Sir  Geof.  Silence  him! — silence  him! — 'tis  a  snare!  T 
retract!  He  shall  not  have  this  girl!  Her  house?  Do 
I  breathe  the  same  air  as  the  woman  so  loved  and 
so  faithless? 


82  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 

Lucy.  Pity,  for  my  mother! — No,  no;  justice  for  her! 
Pity  for  yourself  and  for  me! 

Sir  Geof.  Come  away,  or  you  shall  not  be  my  child,  I'll 
disown  you.     That  man  speaks 

Enter  WiLMOT,  DuKE,  and  LoRD  LoFTDS. 

Hard.  I  speak,  and  I  prove — [To  the  Duke] — The  Mem- 
oirs—  [Glancing  over  them.]  Here  is  the  very  letter  that  the 
menial  informed  you  your  wife  sent  to  Lord  Henry.  Read 
it;  and  judge  if  such  scorn  would  not  goad  such  a  man 
to  revenge.  What  revenge  could  he  wield?  Why,  a 
boast! 

Sir  Geof.  [reading].  The  date  of  the  very  day  that  he 
boasted.  Ha!  brave  words!  proud  heart!  I  suspect! 
I  suspect! 

Hard.  Lord  Henry's  confession!  It  was  writ  on  his 
deathbed. 

Lord  Lof.   'Tis  his  hand.     I  attest  it. 

Duke.  I,  too,  John,  Duke  of  Middlesex. 

Sir   Geof.   [who  has  been  reading  the  confession].   Heaven 

forgive  me!     Can  she?     The  flowers;   the  figure;    the 

How  blind  I've  been!  Where  is  she?  where  is  she?  You 
said  she  was  here!  [Lady  Thornside  appears  at  the  door.] 
Bllinor!  Ellinor!  to  my  arms — to  my  heart — O  my  wife! 
Pardon!  Pardon! 

Lady  Thorn.  Nay,  all  was  forgiven  when  I  once  more 
embraced  our  child. 

Bard,  [to  Loftus  and  Duke].  My  Lords,  destroy  this 
Requisition!  When  you  signed  it,  you  doubtless  believed 
that  the  Prince  you  would  serve  was  of  the  Church  of  your 
Protestant  fathers?     You  are  safe  evermore;  for  your  honor 


SCENE  II]  NOT    so    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  88 

is  freed.     The  Prince  has  retired  to  Rome,  and  abjured  your 
faith.     I  will  convince  you  of  this  later. 

[Duke  and  Softhead  continue  to  shun  each  other  with 
mutual  apprehension. 

Easy  [to  Wilmot].  Glad  to  find  you  are  not  so  bad  as 
you  seemed,  my  Lord;  and  now  that  Lucy  is  engaged  to 
Mr.  Hardman 

Wil.  Engaged  already!  [Aside.  So!  he  asked  me  here 
to  insult  me  with  his  triumph!]     Well! 

Hard.  Lucy,  your  parents  are  united — my  promise  ful- 
filled; permit  me — [Takes  her  hand.']  Sir  Geoflirey,  the 
son  of  him  who  so  wronged  you,  and  whose  wrongs  you 
pardoned,  now  reminds  you,  that  he  is  intrusted  with 
the  charge  to  insure  the  happiness  of  your  child!  Behold 
the  man  of  her  choice,  and  take  f i-om  his  presence  your  own 
cure  of  distrust.  With  his  faults  on  the  surface,  and  with 
no  fault  that  is  worse  than  that  of  concealing  his  virtues; — 
Here  she  loves  and  is  loved!  And  thus  I  discharge  the 
trust,  and  insure  the  happiness! 

[Placing  her  hand  in  Wilmot' s. 

Sir  Geof.   How? 

Lady  Thorn.  It  is  true — do  you  not  read  in  her  blush 
the  secret  of  her  heart? 

Wil.  How  can  I  a.ccept  at  the  price  of 

Hard.  Hush!  For  the  third  time  to-day,  you  have  but 
one  option.  You  cannot  aft'ect  to  be  generous  to  me  at  the 
cost  of  a  heart  all  your  own.  Take  your  right.  Come,  my 
Lord,  lest  I  tell  all  the  world  how  you  bribed  the  Prime 
Minister. 

Soft,  [who  has  taken  Easy  aside].  But,  indeed,  Mr.  Easy, 
I  reform;  I  repent.     Mr.  Hardman  will  have  a  bride  in  the 


84  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 

country — let  me  have  a  bride  in  the  City.     After  all,  I  was 
not  such  a  very  bad  monster. 

Easy.  Pooh!  Won't  hear  of  it!  Want  to  marry  only 
just  to  mimic  my  Lord. 

Bar.  Dear  Lord  Wilmot;  do  say  a  good  word  for  us. 

Easy.  No,  sir;  no!     Your  head's  been  turned  by  a  lord. 

Wil.  Not  the  first  man  whose  head  has  been  turned  by 
a  lord,  with  the  help  of  the  Duke  of  Burgundy — eh,  Mr. 
Easy?     I'll  just  appeal  to  Sir  Geoffrey. 

Easy.  No — no — hold  your  tongue,  my  Lord. 

Wil.  And  you  insisted  upon  giving  your  daughter  to  Mr. 
Softhead;  forced  her  upon  him. 

Easy.  I  never — ! — When? 

Wil.  Last  night,  when  you  were  chaired  member  for 
the  City  of  London.  I'll  just  explain  the  case  to  Sir 
Geoffrey 

Easy.  Confound  it — hold — hold! — You  like  this  young 
reprobate,  Barbara? 

Bar.  Dear  papa,  his  health  is  so  delicate !  I  should  like 
to  take  care  of  him. 

Easy.  There,  go,  and  take  care  of  each  other.  Ha!  ha! 
I  suppose  it  is  all  for  the  best. 

[Duke  tahes  forth.,  and  puts  on^  his  spectacles;  examines 
Softhead  curiously — is  convinced  that  he  is  human, 
approaches,  and  offers  his  hand,  which  SOFTHEAD, 
emboldened  by  Barbara,  though  not  without  mis- 
givings, accepts. 

A  great  deal  of  dry  stuff,  called  philosophy,  is  written 
about  life.  But  the  grand  thing  is  to  take  it  coolly,  and 
have  a  good-humored  indulgence 

Wil.  For  the  force  of  example,  Mr.  Easy! 

Soft.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 


SCENE  II]  NOT    SO    BAD    AS    WE    SEEM  85 

Wil.  For  the  follies  of  fashion,  and  the  crimes  of  mon- 
sters like  myself,  and  that  terrible  Softhead! 

jSir  Geo/.  Ha!  ha! 

Hard.  You  see,  my  dear  Wilmot,  many  sides  to  a 
character! 

Wil.  Plague  on  it,  yes!  But  get  at  them  all,  and  we're 
not  so  bad  as  we  seem 

iSoft.  No,  Fred,  not  quite  so  bad! 

Wil.  Taking  us  as  we  stand — Altogether! 


"DAVID   FALLEN   IS   DEAD!" 

OR  A  KEY  TO  THE  PLAY 

(an  after-scene,  by  way  of  an  epilogue) 

{Intended  to  have  been  spoken  by  the  Original  Amateur  Performers) 

SCENE. 

Wilmot's  Apartment. — Wilmot,  Sir  Geoffrey,  Soft- 
head, Easy,  and  Hardman,  seated  at  a  Table.  Wine, 
Fruits^  etc. 

Wil.  Pass  the  wine — what's  the  news? 

Easy.  Funds  have  risen  to-day. 

Sir  Oeof.   I  suspect  it  will  rain. 

Easy.  Well,  I've  got  in  my  hay. 

Hard.  David  Fallen  is  dead! 

Omnes.  David  Fallen! 

Wil.  Poor  fellow! 

Sir  Geo/.  I  should  like  to  have  seen  him ! 

Soft.  I  saw  him !     So  yellow  1 

Hard.  Your  annuity  killed  him! 

Wil.  How — how  ?  to  the  point. 

Hard.  By  the  shock  on  his  nerves — at  the  sight  of  a  joint. 
A  very  great  genius 

Easy.                                 I  own — now  he's  dead, 
That  a  writer  more  charming 

Wil.  Was  never  worse  fed! 

(86) 


"DAVID    FALLEN    IS    DEADI"  87 

Hard.  His  country  was  grateful 

Soft,  [sur'prised].  He  looked  very  shabby! 

Hard.  His  bones 

Soft.  You  might  count  them ! 

Hard.  Eepose  in  the  Abbey ! 

Soft,   [cifter  a  stare  of  astonishment'].  So  THAT  is  the  way 
that  a  country  is  grateful ! 
Ere  his  nerves  grew  so  weak, — if  she'd  sent  him  a  plateful. 

Easy  \Jiastily  producing  a  long  paper].  My  Taxes  I 

Your  notions  are  perfectly  hateful ! 

[Pause. — Evident  feeling  that  there's  no  getting  over  Mr. 
East's  paper. 

Wil.  Pope's  epigram  stung  him. 

Hard.  Yes,  Pope  has  a  sting. 

Wil.  But  who  writes  the  epitaph? 

Hard.  Pope:  a  sweet  thing! 

Wil.   'Gad,  if  I  were  an  author,  I'd  rather,  instead, 
Have  the  epitaph  living — the  epigram  dead. 
If  Pope  had  but  just  considered  that  matter, 
Poor  David 

Soft.  Had  gone  to  the  Abbey  much  fatter! 

Easy.  He  was  rather  a  scamp ! 

Wil.  Put  yourself  in  his  place. 

Easy  [horror-struck'].  Heaven  forbid! 

Hard.  Let  us  deem  him  the  Last  of  a  Race! 

Sir  Geof.  But  the  race  that  succeeds  may  have  little  more 
pelf. 

Hard.  Ay;  and  trials  as  sharp.     I'm  an  author  myself. 
But  the  remedy?     Wherefore  should  authors  not  build 

Easy.   An  almshouse? 

Hard.  No,  merchant,  their  own  noble  Guild! 

Some  fortress  for  youth  in  the  battle  for  fame; 


88  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS 

Some  shelter  that  Age  is  not  humbled  to  claim; 

Some  roof  from  the  storm  for  the  Pilgrim  of  Knowledge; — 

Wil.  Not  unlike  what  our  ancestors  meant  by — a  College; 
Where  teacher  and  student  alike  the  subscriber, 
Untaxing  the  Patron, 

Easy.  The  State, 

Hard.  Or  the  briber, 


Wil.  The  son  of  proud  Learning  shall  knock  at  the  door 
And  cry  This^  is  rich,  and  not  whine  Thaf  is  poor. 

Hard.  Oh  right!     For  these  men  govern  earth  from  their 
graves — 
Shall  the  dead  be  as  kings,  and  the  living  as  slaves! 

Easy.  It  is  all  their  own  fault — they  so  slave  one  another; 
Not  a  son  of  proud  Learning  but  knocks — down  his  brother! 

Wil.   Yes!  other  vocations,  from  Thames  to  the  Border, 
Have  some  esprit  de  corps^  and  some  pride  in  their  order; 
Lawyers,  soldiers,  and  doctors,  if  quarrels  do  pass, 
Still  soften  their  spite  from  respect  to  their  class; 
Why  should  authors  be  spitting  and  scratching  like  tabbies. 
To  leave  but  dry  bones 

Soft.  For  those  grateful  cold  Abbeys ! 

Hard.  Worst  side  of  their  character ! 

Wil.  True  to  the  letter. 

Are  their  sides,  then,  so  fat,  we  can't  hit  on  a  better? 

Hard.  Why — the  sticks  in  the  fable! — our  Guild  be  the 
tether. 

Wil.   Ay:  the  thorns  are  rubbed  off  when  the  sticks  cling 
together. 

Soft,   [musinghj].   I  could  he — yes — I  could  be  a  Pilgrim 
of  Knowledge, 
If  you'd  change  Deadman's  Lane  to  a  snug  little  College. 

'  The  bead.  *  The  pocket. 


"DAVID    FALLEN    IS    DEAD!"  89 

Sir  Geo/.  Ugh!  stuff! — it  takes  money  a,  College  to  found. 

Easy.  I  will  head  the  subscription  myself — with  a  pound. 

Hard.  Quite  enough  from  a  friend:  for  we  authors  should 
feel 
We  must  put  our  own  shoulders  like  men  to  ttie  wheel. 
Be  thrifty  when  thriving — take  heed  of  the  morrow,— — 

Easy.  And  not  get  in  debt 

Sir  Geof.  Where  the  deuce  could  they  borrow? 

Hard.  Let  us  think  of  a  scheme. 

Easy.  He  is  always  so  knowing. 

Wil.    A  scheme!     I   have  got   one;    the  wheels   set   are 
going! 
A  play  from  one  author. 

Hard.  With  authors  for  actors. —  . 

Wil.   And  some  benefit  nights, 

Both.  For  the  world's  benefactors. 

Sir  Geof.  Who'll  give  you  the  play?  it  will  not  be  worth 
giving. 
Authors  now  are  so  bad;  always  are  while  they're  living! 

Easy.  Ah!  if  David  Fallen,  great  genius,  were  here 

Omnes.  Great  genius ! 

Hard.  A  man  whom  all  time  shall  revere! 

Soft,  [impatiently'].  But  he's  dead. 

Omnes  [lugubriously].  He  is  dead! 

Easy.  The  true  Classical  School,  sir! 

Ah!  could  he  come  back! 

Wil.  He'll  not  be  such  a  fool,  sir. 

[Taking  Hardman  aside,  whispers. 
We  know  of  an  author. 

Hard,  [doubifidly].   Ye^s — s,  David  was  brighter. 

Omnes.  But  he's  dead. 

Hard.  This  might  do — as  a  live  sort  of  writer. 


90  BULWERS    DRAMATIC    WORKS 

Easy.  Alive!  that  looks  bad. 

Soft.  Must  we  take  a  live  man? 

Wil.  To  oblige  us  he'll  be,  sir, — as  dead  as  he  can! 

Soft.  Alive;  and  m/^  write,  sir? 

Hard.  With  pleasure,  sir. 

Soft.  Pleasure! 

Hard.  With  less  than  your  wit,  he  has  more  than  jour 
leisure. 
Coquets  with  the  Muse 

Sir  Oeof.  Lucky  dog  to  afford  her! 

Wil.  Can  we  get  his  good  side? 

Hard.  Yes,  he's  proud  of  his  order. 

Wil.  Then  he'll  do! 

Sir  Oeof.  As  for  wit — he  has  books  on  his  shelves. 

Hard.  Now  the  actors  ? 

Wil.  By  Jove,  we  will  act  it  ourselves. 

[Omnes,  at  first  surprised  into  enthusiasm,  succeeded  hy 
great  consternation. 

Sir  Oeof   Ugh,  not  I! 

Soft.  Lord  ha'  mercy! 

Easy.  A  plain,  sober,  steady — 

Wil.    I'll   appeal    to   Sir   Geoffrey.     There's   one   caught 
already ! 
This  suspicious  old  knight;  to  his  blind  side,  direct  us. 

Hard.  Your  part  is  to  act 

Wil.  True;  and  his  to  suspect  us. 

I  rely  upon  you. 

Hard,  [looking  at  his  watch].  Me!  I  have  not  a  minute! 

Wil.  If  the  Play  has  a  plot,  he  is  sure  to  be  in  it. 
Come,  Softhead! 

Soft.  I  won't.     I'll  go  home  to  my  mother. 

Wil.  Pooh!  monsters  like  us  always  help  one  another. 


"DAVID    FALLEN    IS    DEADl"  91 

Sir  Geo/.  I  suspect  you  will  act. 

iSoft.  Well,  I've  this  consolation — 

Still  to  imitate  one 

Hard.  Who  defies  imitation. 

Wil.  Let  the  public  but  favor  the  plan  we  have  hit  on, 
And  we'll  chair  through  all  London, — our  Family  Briton. 

iSir  Geo/.  What? — what?  Look  at  Easy!  He's  drunk, 
or  I  dream 

Fasi/  [rising].  The  toast  of  the  evening — Success  to  the 
Scheme! 


MONEY 


93 


"  'Tis  a  very  good  world  we  live  in, 
To  lend,  or  to  spend,  or  to  give  in : 
But  to  beg  or  to  borrow,  or  get  a  man's  own, 
'Tis  the  very  worst  world  tliat  ever  was  known." 

—  Old  Truism 

*^Und,  es  herrscht  der  Erde  Gott,  das  Geld." — Schiller 


94 


DEDICATED  TO 
JOHN     FORSTER,    ESQ., 

AUTHOR  OF    '  THE  LIVES  OF  STATESMEN  OF  THE  COMMONWEALTH." 

A   SLIGHT    MEMORIAL 

OF    SINCERE    RESPECT    AND    CORDIAL    FRIENDSHIP, 

ALTHOUGH 

(for    WE    ARE    ALL    HUMAN  I) 

HE    HAS,    IN    ONE    INSTANCE,    AND    BUT    ONE, 

SUFFERED    HIS   JUDGMENT   TO    BE    MISLED    BY   TOO    GREAT 

A    REGARD    FOR 

"MONEY!" 


95 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS 

Lord  Glossmore Mr.  F.  Vining. 

Sir  John  Vesey,  Bart.,  Knight 

of  the  G-nelph,  F.E.S.,  F.S.  A.  Mr.  Stickland.' 

Sir  Frederick  Blount  .     .     .  Mr.  Walter  Lacy. 

Stout Mr.  David  Eees. 

Graves Mr.  Benjamin  Webster. 

Evelyn Mr.  Macready. 

Captain  Dudley  Smooth  .     ,  Mr.  Wrench. 

Sharp Mr.  Waldron. 

ToKE Mr.  Oxberry. 

Frantz,  Tailor Mr.  O.  Smith. 

Tabouret,  Upholsterer     .     .     .  Mr.  Howe. 

MacFinch,  Jeweller  and  Silver- 
smith    Mr.  Gough. 

MacStucco,  Architect ....  Mr.  Morgue. 

Kite,  Horsedealer    .....  Mr.  Santer. 

Crimson,  Portrait  Painter     .     .  Mr.  Gallot. 

Grab,  Publisher Mr.  Caulfield. 

Members  of  the  *  *  *   Club,  Servants,  etc. 

Lady   Franklin,  half-sister  to 

Sir  John  Vesey Mrs.  Glover. 

Georgina,  daughter  to  Sir  John     Miss  P.  Horton. 
Clara,     companion     to     Lady 

Franklin,  cousin  to  Evelyn    .     Miss  Helen  Faucit. 

Scene — London,  1840. 

First  performed  on  Tuesday,  the  8th  of  December,  1840,  at 
the  Haymarket  Theatre. 


(96) 


MONEY 


ACT   I.— SCENE   L 

A  draiving-room  in  SiR  JoHN  Yesey's  house;  folding- 
doors  at  the  backj  tvhicJi  open  on  another  drawing-room.  To 
the  right.,  a  table,  with  newspapers,  books,  etc.;  to  the  left, 
a  sofa,  v)riting -table. 

Sir  John,  Gteorgina. 

Sir  John  [reading  a  letter  edged  loith  black'].  Yes,  he  says 
at  two  precisely.  "Dear  Sir  John,  as  since  the  death  of 
my  sainted  Maria," — Hum! — that's  his  wife;  she  made  him 
a  martyr,  and  now  he  makes  her  a  saint! 

Geor.  Well,  as  since  her  death  ? — 

Sir  John  [reading'].  "I  have  been  living  in  chambers, 
where  I  cannot  so  well  invite  ladies,  you  will  allow  me 
to  bring  Mr,  Sharp,  the  lawyer,  to  read  the  will  of  the  late 
Mr.  Mordaunt  (to  which  I  am  appointed  executor)  at  your 
house — your  daughter  being  the  nearest  relation.  I  shall 
be  with  you  at  two  precisely. — Henry  Graves." 

Oeor.  And  you  really  feel  sure  that  poor  Mr.  Mordaunt 
has  made  me  his  heiress? 

Sir  John.   Ay,  the  richest  heiress  in  England.     Can  you 

doubt  it?     Are  yoa   not  his   nearest  relation?      Niece    by 

your  poor  mother,  his  own  sister.    All  the  time  he  was  mak- 
Bulwer,  Vol.  XXX  07)  *E 


98  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  I 

ing  this  enormous  fortune  in  India  did  we  ever  miss  send- 
ing him  little  reminiscences  of  our  disinterested  affection  ? 
When  he  was  last  in  England,  and  you  only  so  high,  was 
not  my  house  his  home?  Didn't  I  get  a  surfeit  out  of  com- 
plaisance to  his  execrable  curries  and  pillaws?  Didn't  he 
smoke  his  hookah — nasty  old — that  is,  poor  dear  man — in 
my  best  drawmg-room?  And  didn't  you  make  a  point 
of  calling  him  your  "handsome  uncle"? — for  the  excellent 
creature  was  as  vain  as  a  peacock, — 

Geor.  And  so  ugly! — 

^ir  John.  The  dear  deceased!  Alas,  he  was.,  indeed; — 
like  a  kangaroo  in  a  jaundice!  And  if  after  all  these  marks 
of  attachment  you  are  not  his  heiress,  why  then  the  finest 
feelings  of  our  nature — the  ties  of  blood — the  principles 
of  justice — are  implanted  in  us  in  vain. 

Geor.  Beautiful,  sir.  Was  not  that  in  your  last  speech 
at  the  Freemasons'  Tavern  upon  the  great  Chimney-sweep 
Question  ? 

Sir  John.  Clever  girl! — what  a  memory  she  has!  Sit 
down,  Georgy.  Upon  this  most  happy — I  mean  melan- 
choly— occasion,  I  feel  that  I  may  trust  you  with  a  se- 
cret. You  see  this  fine  house — our  fine  servants — our  fine 
plate — our  fine  dinners:  every  one  thinks  Sir  John  Vesey 
a  rich  man. 

Geor.   And  are  you  not,  papa? 

Sir  John.  Not  a  bit  of  it — all  humbug,  child — all  hum- 
bug, upon  my  soul!  As  you  hazard  a  minnow  to  hook  in 
a  trout,  so  one  guinea  thrown  out  with  address  is  often  the 
best  bait  for  a  hundred.  There  are  two  rules  in  life — First, 
Men  are  valued  not  for  what  they  are,  but  what  they  seem 
to  be.  Secondly,  If  you  have  no  merit  or  money  of  your 
own,   you   must  trade  on   the   merits   and   money  of   other 


SCENE  I]  MONEY  99 

people.  My  father  got  the  title  by  services  in  the  army, 
and  died  penniless.  On  the  strength  of  his  services  I  got 
a  pension  of  £400  a  year;  on  the  strength  of  £400  a  year 
I  took  credit  for  £800;  on  the  strength  of  £800  a  year  I 
married  your  mother  with  £10,000;  on  the  strength  of 
£10,000  I  took  credit  for  £40,000  and  paid  Dicky  Gossip 
three  guineas  a  week  to  go  about  everywhere  calling  me 
"Stingy  Jack!" 

Geor.   Ha!  hal     A  disagreeable  nickname. 

Sir  John.  But  a  valuable  reputation.  When  a  man  ^is 
called  stingy,  it  is  as  much  as  calling  him  rich;  and  when 
a  man's  called  rich,  why  he's  a  man  universally  respected. 
On  the  strength  of  my  respectability  I  wheeled  a  constitu- 
ency, changed  my  politics,  resigned  my  seat  to  a  Minister, 
who,  to  a  man  of  such  stake  in  the  country,  coald  offer 
nothing  less  in  return  than  a  patent  office  of  £2,000  a 
year.  That's  the  way  to  succeed  in  life.  Humbug,  my 
dear! — all  humbug,  upon  my  soul. 

Geor.  I  must  say  that  you 

Sir  John.  Know  the  world,  to  be  sure.  Now,  for  your 
fortune, — as  T  spend  more  than  my  income,  I  can  have 
nothing  to  leave  you;  yet,  even  without  counting  your 
uncle,  you  have  always  passed  for  an  heiress  on  the  credit 
of  your  expectations  from  the  savings  of  "Stingy  Jack." 
The  same  with  your  education.  I  never  grudged  anything 
to  make  a  show — never  stuffed  your  head  with  histories  and 
homilies;  but  you  draw,  you  sing,  you  dance,  you  walk 
well  into  a  room;  and  that's  the  way  young  ladies  are  edu- 
cated nowadays,  in  order  to  become  a  pride  to  their  parents, 
and  a  blessing  to  their  husband — that  is,  when  they  have 
caught  him.  Apropos  of  a  husband:  you  know  we  thought 
of  Sir  Frederick  Blount. 


100  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  r 

Oeor.   Ah,  papa,  he  is  charming. 

Sir  John.  He  was  so,  my  dear,  before  we  knew  your  poor 
uncle  was  dead;  but  an  heiress  such  as  you  will  be  should 
look  out  for  a  duke. — Where  the  deuce  is  Evelyn  this 
morning? 

Geor.  I've  not  seen  him,  papa.  What  a  strange  character 
he  is! — so  sarcastic;  and  yet  he  can  be  agreeable. 

Sir  John.  A  humorist — a  cynic?  one  never  knows  how 
to  take  him.  My  private  secretary, — a  poor  cousin,  has 
not  got  a  shilling,  and  yet,  hang  me,  if  he  does  not  keep 
us  all  at  a  sort  of  a  distance. 

Geor.  But  why  do  you  take  him  to  live  with  us,  papa, 
since  there's  no  good  to  be  got  by  it? 

Sir  John.  There  you  are  wrong;  he  has  a  great  deal  of 
talent:  prepares  my  speeches,  writes  my  pamphlets,  looks 
up  my  calculations.  My  Report  on  the  last  Commission 
has  got  me  a  great  deal  of  fame,  and  has  put  me  at  the 
head  of  the  new  one.  Besides  he  is  our  cousin — he  has 
no  salary:  kindness  to  a  poor  relation  always  tells  well  in 
the  world;  and  Benevolence  is  a  useful  virtue, — particu- 
larly when  you  can  have  it  for  nothing!  With  our  other 
cousin,  Clara,  it  was  different:  her  father  thought  fit  to 
leave  me  her  guardian,  though  she  had  not  a  penny- — mere 
useless  encumbrance:  so,  you  see,  I  got  my  half-sister, 
Lady  Franklin,  to  take  her  off  my  hands. 

Geor.  How  much  longer  is  Lady  Franklin's  visit  to  be? 

Sir  John.  I  don't  know,  my  dear;  the  longer  the  better, 
— for  her  husband  left  her  a  good  deal  of  money  at  her 
own  disposal.     Ah,  here  she  comes! 


SCENE  II]  MONEY  101 


SCENE    II. 
Lady  Franklin,  Clara,  Sir  John,  Georgina. 

Sir  John.  My  dear  sister,  we  were  just  loud  in  your 
praises.     But  how's  this? — not  in  mourning? 

Lady  Frank.  Why  should  I  go  into  mourning  for  a  man 
I  never  saw? 

Sir  John.  Still,  there  may  be  a  legacy. 

Lady  Frank.  Then  there'll  be  less  cause  for  affliction! 
Ha!  ha!  my  dear  Sir  John,  I'm  one  of  those  who  think 
feelings  a  kind  of  property,  and  never  take  credit  for 
them   upon  false  pretences. 

Sir  John  \aside\.  Very  silly  woman!  But,  Clara,  I  see 
you  are  more  attentive  to  the  proper  decorum:  yet  you  are 
very,  very^  VERY  distantly  connected  with  the  deceased — 
a  third  cousin,  I  think? 

Clara.  Mr.  Mordaunt  once  assisted  my  father,  and  these 
poor  robes  are  all  the  gratitude  I  can  show  him. 

Sir  John.  Gratitude!  humph!  I  am  afraid  the  minx  has 
got  expectations. 

Lady  Frank.  So,  Mr.  Graves  is  the  executor — the  will  is 
addressed  to  him?  The  same  Mr.  Graves  who  is  always 
in  black — always  lamenting  his  ill-fortune  and  his  sainted 
Maria,  who  led  him  the  life  of  a  dog? 

Sir  John.  The  very  same.  His  liveries  are  black — his 
carriage  is  black — he  always  rides  a  black  galloway — and, 


102  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  I 

faith,  if  he  ever  marry  again,  I  think  he  will  show  his  re- 
spect to  the  sainted  Maria  by  marrying  a  black  woman. 

Lady  Frank.  Ha!  ha!  we  shall  see. — \Aside.'\  Poor 
Graves,  I  always  liked  him:  he  made  an  excellent  hus- 
band. 

Enter  Evelyn   \seats  himself.,  and  takes   up  a  hook 
unobserved]. 

/Sir  John.  What  a  crowd  of  relations  this  Will  brings  to 
light!  Mr.  Stont,  the  Political  Economist — Lord  Gloss- 
more — 

Lady  Frank.  Whose  grandfather  kept  a  pawnbroker's 
shop,  and  who,  accordingly,  entertains  the  profoundest 
contempt  for  everything  popular,  2:)arvenu^  and  plebeian. 

Sir  John.   Sir  Frederick  Blount — 

Lady  Frank.  Sir  Fwedewick  Blount,  who  objects  to  the 
letter  r  as  being  too  enough,  and  therefore  dwops  its  ac- 
quaintance: one  of  the  new  class  of  prudent  young  gentle- 
men, who,  not  having  spirits  and  constitution  for  the  hearty 
excesses  of  their  predecessors,  intrench  themselves  in  the 
dignity  of  a  lady-like  languor.  A  man  of  fashion  in  the  last 
century  was  riotous  and  thoughtless — in  this  he  is  tranquil 
and  egotistical.  He  never  does  anything  that  is  silly,  or 
says  anything  that  is  wise.  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear; 
I  believe  Sir  Frederick  is  an  admirer  of  yours,  provided, 
on  reflection,  he  does  not  see  "what  harm  it  could  do  him" 
to  fall  in  love  with  your  beauty  and  expectations.  Then, 
too,  our  poor  cousin  the  scholar — Oh,  Mr.  Evelyn,  there 
you  are! 

Sir  John.  Evelyn — the  very  person  1  wanted:  where  have 
you  been  all  day  ?  Have  you  seen  to  those  papers  ? — have 
you   written   my  epitaph  on   poor  Mordaunt? — Latin,   you 


SCENE  n]  MONEY  103 

kuow! — have  jou  reported  my  speech  at  Exeter  Hall? — 
have  you  looked  out  the  debates  on  the  Customs? — and,  oh, 
have  you  mended  up  all  the  old  pens  in  the  study? 

Geor.  And  have  you  brought  me  the  black  floss  silk  ? — 
have  you  been  to  Storr's  for  my  ring? — and,  as  we  cannot 
go  out  on  this  melancholy  occasion,  did  you  call  at  Hook- 
ham's  for  the  last  HB.  and  the  Comic  Annual? 

Lady  Frank.  And  did  you  see  what  was  really  the  matter 
with  my  bay  horse? — did  you  get  me  the  Opera-box? — did 
you  buy  my  little  Charley  his  peg-top? 

Eve.  \alivays  reading].  Certainly,  Paley  is  right  upon  that 
point;  for,  put  the  syllogism  thus— — [looking  up]  Ma'am — 
Sir — Miss  Vesey — you  want  something  of  me? — ■ — Paley 
observes,  that  to  assist  even  the  undeserving  tends  to  the 
better  regulation  of  our  charitable  feelings — No  apologies — 
I  am  quite  at  your  service. 

Sir  John.  Now  he's  in  one  of  his  humors! 

Lady  Frank.  You  allow  him  strange  liberties,  Sir  John. 

Eve.  You  will  be  less  surprised  at  that,  madam,  when 
I  inform  you  that  Sir  John  allows  me  nothing  else. — I  am 
now  about  to  draw  on  his  benevolence. 

Lady  Frank.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  and  like  your  spirit. 
Sir  John,  I'm  in  the  way,  1  see;  for  I  know  your  benevo- 
lence is  so  delicate  that  you  never  allow  any  one  to  detect  it! 

[Walks  aside. 

Eve.  I  could  not  do  your  commissions  to-day — I  have 
been  to  visit  a  poor  woman,  who  was  my  nurse  and  my 
mother's  last  friend.  She  is  very  poor,  very — sick — dying 
— and  she  owes  six  months'  rent! 

Sir  John.  You  know  I  should  be  most  happy  to  do  any- 
thing for  yourself.  But  the  nurse — [Aside.  Some  people's 
nurses  are  always  ill!] — there  are  so  many  impostors  about? 


lOi  BULWER'S    DRAIMATIC    WORKS  [act  i 

— We'll  talk  of  it  to-morrow.  This  most  mournful  occasion 
takes  up  all  my  attention.  [Looking  at  his  watch.']  Bless 
me!  so  late!  I've  letters  to  write,  and — none  of  the  pens 
are  mended.  \Exit. 

Geor.  [talcing  out  her  purse].  I  think  I  will  give  it  to  him 
— and  yet,  if  I  don't  get  the  fortune,  after  all! — Papa  allows 
me  so  little! — then  I  must  have  those  earrings  [puts  up  the 
purse]  Mr.  Evelyn,  what  is  the  address  of  your  nurse? 

Eve.  [writes  and  gives  it].  She  has  a  good  heart  with  all 
her  foibles! — Ah!  Miss  Vesey,  if  that  poor  woman  had  not 
closed  the  eyes  of  my  lost  mother,  Alfred  Evelyn  would 
not  have  been  this  beggar  to  your  father. 

[Clara  looks  over  the  address. 

Geor.  1  will  certainly  attend  to  it — [aside]  if  I  get  the 
fortune. 

Sir  John  [calling  without].   Georgy,  I  say! 

Geor.  Yes,-  papa.  [JEJxit. 

[Evelyn  has  seated  himself  again  at  the  table  {to  the  right), 
and  leans  his  face  on  his  hands. 

Clara.  His  noble  spirit  bowed  to  this! — Ah,  at  least  here 
I  may  give  him  comfort — [sits  down  to  write].  But  he  will 
recognize  my  hand. 

Lady  Frank.  What  bill  are  you  paying,  Clara? — putting 
up  a  banknote? 

Clara.  Hush! — Ob,  Lady  Franklin,  you  are  the  kindest  of 
human  beings.  This  is  for  a  poor  person — I  would  not  have 
her  know  whence  it  came,  or  she  would  refuse  it.  Would 
you? — No, — be  knows  her  handwriting  also! 

Lady  Frank.  Will  I — what? — give  the  money  myself? 
with  pleasure!  Poor  Clara.  Why  this  covers  all  your 
savings — and  I  am  so  rich! 

Clara.  Nay,  I  would  wish  to  do  all  myself! — it  is  a  pride 


SCENE  III]  MONEY  •  105 

— a  duty — it  is  a  joy;  and  I  have  so  few  joys!    But,  hush! — 
this  way. 

[They  retire  into  the  inner  room  and  converse  in   dumb 

show. 
Eve.  And  thus  must  I  grind  out  my  life  forever! — I  am 
ambitious,  and  Poverty  drags  me  down;  I  have  learning, 
and  Poverty  makes  me  the  drudge  of  fools! — I  love,  and 
Poverty  stands  like  a  spectre  before  the  altar!  But  no, 
no — if,  as  I  believe,  I  am  but  loved  again,  I  will — will — 
what? — turn  opium-eater,  and  dream  of  the  Eden  1  may 
never  enter. 

Lady  Frank,  [to  Clara].   Yes,  I  will  get  my  maid  to  copy 

and  direct  this — she  writes  well,  and  her  hand  will  never  be 

discovered.     I  will  have  it  done  and  sent  instantly.      [Exit. 

[Clara    advances    to    the  front   of  the   stage.,    and  seats 

herself— Ey'E.IjYI^    reading. — -Enter   SiR   FREDERICK 

Blount. 

SCENE   III. 
Clara,  Evelyn,  Sir  Frederick  Blount. 

Blount.  No  one  in  the  woom! — Oh,  Miss  Douglas! — Pway 
don't  let  me  disturb  you.    Where  is  Miss  Yesey — Greorgina? 

[Taking  Clara's  chair  as  she  rises. 

Eve.  [looking  wp,  gives  Clara  a  chair  and  re-seats  himself]. 
[Aside.]     Insolent  puppy! 

Clara.  Shall  I  tell  her  you  are  here,  Sir  Frederick? 

Blount.  Not  for  the  world.  Vewy  pwetty  girl  this 
companion ! 

Clara.  What  did  you  think  of  the  Panorama  the  other 
day,  Cousin  Evelyn? 


108  BULWER-S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  I 

Eve.  [i-eading]. — 

"I  cannot  talk  with  civet  in  the  room, 
A  fine  puss  gentleman  that's  all  perfume  I" 

Rather  good  lines  these. 

Blount.   Sir ! 

Eve.   [offering  the  book].  Don't  you  think  so? — Cowper. 

Blount  [declining  the  book].   Cowper! 

Eve.  Cowper. 

Blount  [shrugging  his  shoulders^  to  Clara].  Strange  per- 
son, Mr.  Evelyn! — quite  a  chawacter! — Indeed  the  Pano- 
wama  gives  you  no  idea  of  Naples — a  delightful  place. 
1  make  it  a  wule  to  go  there  evewy  second  year — I  am 
vewy  fond  of  twavelling.  You'd  like  Wome  (Rome) — bad 
inns,  but  very  fine  wuins;  gives  you  quite  a  taste  for  that 
sort  of  thing! 

Eve.   [reading]. — 

"How  much  a  dunce  that  has  been  sent  to  roam 
Excels  a  dunce  that  has  been  kept  at  home!" 

Blount  [aside].  That  fellow  Cowper  says  vewy  odd  things! 
— Humph! — it  is  beneath  me  to  quawwell. — [Aloud.]  It 
will  not  take  long  to  wead  the  will,  I  suppose.  Poor  old 
Mordaunt! — I  am  his  nearest  male  welation.  He  was  vewy 
eccentwic.  By  the  way,  Miss  Douglas,  did  you  wemark 
my  cuwicle?  It  is  bwinging  cuwicles  into  fashion.  I 
should  be  most  happy  if  you  will  allow  me  to  dwive 
you  out.     Nay — nay — I  should  upon  my  word. 

[Trying  to  take  her  hand. 

Eve.  [starting  up].  A  wasp! — a  wasp! — just  going  to  set- 
tle.    Take  care  of    the  wasp,  Miss  Douglas! 

Blount.    A    wasp! — where! — don't    bwing   it   this   way, — 


SCENE  IV]  MONEY  107 

some   people   don't  mind   them!     I've  a  particular  dislike 
to  wasps ;  they  sting  damnably ! 

Eve.  I  beg  pardon — it's  only  a  gadfly. 

Enter  Servant. 

Ser.  Sir  John  will  be  happy  to  see  you  m  his  study,  Sir 
Frederick.  {Exit  Servant. 

Blount.  Vewy  well.  Upon  my  word,  there  is  something 
vewy  nice  about  this  girl.  To  be  sure,  I  love  Georgina 
— but  if  this  one  would  take  a  fancy  to  me  [thought- 
fully]— Well,  I  don't  see  what  harm  it  could  do  me! — 
Au  plaisir  f  [Exit. 


SCENE    lY. 

Evelyn  and  Clara. 

Eve.  Clara! 

Clara.  Cousin! 

Eve.  And  you  too  are  a  dependant! 

Clara.  But  on  Lady  Franklin,  who  seeks  to  make  me 
forget  it. 

Eve.  Ay,  but  can  the  world  forget  it?  This  insolent 
condescension — this  coxcombry  of  admiration — more  gall- 
ing than  the  arrogance  of  contempt!  Look  you  now — 
Robe  Beauty  in  silk  and  cashmere — hand  Virtue  into  her 
chariot — lackey  their  caprices — wrap  them  from  the  winds 
—fence  them  round  with  a  golden  circle — and  Virtue  and 
Beauty  are  as  goddesses  both  to  peasant  and  to  prince. 
Strip  them  of  the  adjuncts — see  Beauty  and  Virtue  poor — 
dependent — solitary — walking  the  world  defenceless!  oh, 
then  the  devotion  changes  its  character — the   same  crowd 


108  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  i 

gather  eagerly  around — fools — fops — libertines — not  to  wor- 
ship at  the  shrine,  but  to  sacrifice  the  victim! 

Clara.   My  cousin,  you  are  cruel! 

Eve.  Forgive  me!  There  is  a  something  when  a  man's 
heart  is  better  than  his  fortunes,  that  makes  even  affection 
bitter.  Mortification  for  myself — it  has  ceased  to  chafe  me. 
I  can  mock  where  1  once  resented.  But  you — YOU,  so  deli- 
cately framed  and  nurtured — one  slight  to  you — one  care- 
less look — one  disdainful  tone — makes  me  feel  the  true 
curse  of  the  poor  man.  His  pride  gives  armor  to  his  own 
breast,  but  it  has  no  shield  to  protect  another. 

Clara.  But  1,  too,  have  pride  of  my  own — I,  too,  can 
smile  at  the  pointless  insolence 

Eve.  Smile — and  he  took  your  hand!  Oh,  Clara,  you 
know  not  the  tortures  that  I  suffer  hourly !  When  others 
approach  you — young — fair — rich — the  sleek  darlings  of  the 
world — I  accuse  you  of  your  very  beauty — I  writhe  beneath 
every  smile  that  you  bestow.  No — speak  not! — my  heart 
has  broken  in  silence,  and  you  shall  hear  the  rest.  For 
you  T  have  endured  the  weary  bondage  of  this  house — the 
fool's  gibe — the  hireling's  sneer — the  bread  purchased  by 
toils  that  should  have  led  me  to  loftier  ends:  yes,  to  see 
you — hear  you — breathe  the  same  air — be  ever  at  hand — 
that  if  others  slighted,  from  one  at  least  you  might  receive 
the  luxury  of  respect: — for  this — for  this  I  have  lingered, 
suffered,  and  forborne.  Oh!  Clara,  we  are  orphans  both — 
friendless  both:  you  are  all  in  the  world  to  me:  turn  not 
away — my  very  soul  speaks  in  these  words — I  love  you! 

Clara.  No — Evelyn — Alfred — No!  say  it  not;  think  it 
not!    it  were  madness. 

Eve.  Madness ! — nay,  hear  me  yet.  I  am  poor,  penniless 
— a  beggar  for  bread  to  a  dying  servant.    True! — But  I  have 


SCENE  IV]  MONEY  109 

a  heart  of  iron!  1  have  knowledge — patience — health, — and 
my  love  for  yo a  gives  me  at  last  ambition!  I  have  trifled 
with  my  own  energies  till  now,  for  I  despised  all  things  till 
I  loved  you.  With  you  to  toil  for — your  step  to  support 
— your  path  to  smooth — and  1 — I  poor  Alfred  Evelyn — 
promise  at  last  to  win  for  you  even  fame  and  fortune  1  Do 
not  withdraw  your  hand — this  hand — shall  it  not  be  mine? 

Clara.  Ah,  Evelyn!     Never — never! 

Eve.  Never. 

Clara.  Forget  this  folly;  our  union  is  impossible,  and  to 
talk  of  love  were  to  deceive  both ! 

Eve.  {bitterly].   Because  I  am  poor! 

Clara.  And  /  too  !  A  marriage  of  privation — of  penury 
— of  days  that  dread  the  morrow!  I  have  seen  such  a  lot! 
— Never  return  to  this  again. 

Eve.  Enough — you  are  obeyed.  I  deceived  myself — ha! 
— ha! — 1  fancied  that  I  too  was  loved.  I,  whose  youth  is 
already  half  gone  with  care  and  toil ! — whose  mind  is  soured 
— whom  nobody  can  love — who  ought  to  have  loved  no 
one! 

Clara  \_aside'].  And  if  it  were  only  /  to  suffer,  or  per- 
haps to  starve? — Oh,  what  shall  I  say?  [Aloud.']  Evelyn 
— Cousin? 

Eve.  Madam. 

Clara.   Alfred— I— I— 

Eve.  Keject  me ! 

Clara.  Yes!     It  is  past!  [Exit. 

Eve.  Let  me  think.  It  was  yesterday  her  hand  trembled 
when  mine  touched  it.  And  the  rose  I  gave  her — yes,  she 
pressed  her  lips  to  it  once  when  she  seemed  as  if  she  saw 
me  not.  But  it  was  a  trap — a  trick — for  I  was  as  poor  then 
as  now.     This  will  be  a  jest  for  them  all!     Well,  courage! 


110  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  i 

it  is  but  a  poor  heart  that  a  coquette's  contempt  can  break! 
And  now,  that  I  care  for  no  one,  the  world  is  but  a  great 
chess-board,  and  I  will  sit  down  in  earnest  and  play  with 
Fortune! 

Enter  LoRD  Glossmore,  preceded  hy  Servant. 

Ser.  I  will  tell  Sir  John,  my  Lord! 

[Evelyn  takes  up  the  newspaper. 

Gloss.    The   secretary — hum!     Fine   day,    sir;    any   news 
from  the  East? 

Eve.  Yes! — all  the  wise  men  have  gone  back  there! 

Gloss.    Ha,    ha! — not  all,  for  here  comes  Mr.   Stout,  the 
great  political  economist. 


SCENE    V. 
Stout,  Glossmore,  Evelyn. 

Stout.  Good-morning,  Glossmore. 

Gloss.    Glossmore! — the  parvenu! 

Stout.  Afraid  I  might  be  late — been  detained  at  the  Ves- 
try— Astonishing  how  ignorant  the  English  poor  are!  Took 
me  an  hour  and  a  half  to  beat  it  into  the  head  of  a  stupid 
old  widow,  with  nine  children,  that  to  allow  her  three  shil- 
lings a  week  was  against  all  the  rules  of  public  morality. 

Eve.   Excellent! — admirable! — your  hand,  sir! 

Gloss.  What!  you  approve  such  doctrines,  Mr.  Evelyn? 
Are  old  women  only  fit  to  be  starved? 

Eve.  Starved!  popular  delusion!  Observe,  my  Lord — to 
squander  money  upon  those  who  starve  is  only  to  afford 
encouragement  to  starvation. 


SCENE  vij  MONEY  111 

Stout.  A  very  superior  person  that! 

Gloss.  Atrocious  principles!  Give  me  the  good  old  times, 
when  it  was  the  duty  of  the  rich  to  succor  the  distressed. 

Eve.  On  second   thoughts,   you  are  right,  my  Lord. — I, 

too,  know  a  poor  woman — ill — dying — in  want.     Shall  she, 

too,  perish? 

Gloss.  Perish!  horrible! — in  a  Christian  country!    Perish! 

Heaven  forbid! 

Eve.  [holding  out  his  hand].  What,  then,  will  you  give 
her? 

Gloss.  Ahem!     Sir — the  parish  ought  to  give. 

Stout.  Ko! — no! — no!  Certainly  not!  [with  great  vehe- 
mence]. 

Gloss.  No!  no!  But  I  say,  yes!  yes!  And  if  the  parish 
refuse  to  maintain  the  poor,  the  only  way  .left  to  a  man  of 
firmness  and  resolution,  holding  the  principles  that  I  do, 
and  adhering  to  the  constitution  of  our  fathers,  is  to  force 
the  poor  on  the  parish  by  never  giving  them  a  farthing 
one's  self. 

SCENE   VI. 

SiE  John,  Blount,  Lady  Franklin,  Georgina,  Gloss- 
more,  Stout,  Evelyn. 

Sir  John.  How  d'ye  do?— Ah!  How  d'ye  do,  gentle- 
men? This  is  a  most  melancholy  meeting.  The  poor 
deceased!   what  a  man  he  was! 

Blount.  I  was  chwistened  Fwedewick  after  him!  He  was 
my  first  cousin. 

Sir  John.  And  Georgina  his  own  niece — next  of  kin! — an 
excellent  man,  though  odd — a  kind  heart,  but  no  liver!     I 


112  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  i 

sent  him  twice  a  year  thirty  dozen  of  the  Cheltenham  waters. 
It's  a  comfort  to  reflect  on  these  little  attentions  at  such 
a  time. 

Stout.  And  1,  too,  sent  him  the  Parliamentary  debates 
regularly,  bound  in  calf.  He  was  my  second  cousin — sensi- 
ble man — and  a  follower  of  Malthus:  never  married  to  in- 
crease the  surplus  population,  and  fritter  away  his  money 
on  his  own  children.     And  now 

Eve.  He  reaps  the  benefit  of  celibacy  in  the  prospective 
gratitude  of  every  cousin  he  had  in  the  world! 

Lady  Frank.   Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Sir  John.  Hush!  Hush!  decency,  Lady  Franklin;  de- 
cency ! 

Enter  Servant. 


Ser.  Mr.  Graves — Mr,  Sharp. 

Sir  John.  Oh,   here's  Mr.  Graves;    that's  Sharp  the  law- 
yer, who  brought  the  will  from  Calcutta. 


SCENE   VII. 
Graves,  Sharp,  Sir  John,  etc. 

Chorus  of  Sir  John,  Glossmore,  Blount,  Stout. 

Ah,  Sir, — Ah,  Mr.  Graves! 

[Georgina  holds  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

Sir  John.   A  sad  occasion ! 

Graves.  But  everything  in  life  is  sad.  Be  comforted, 
Miss  Yesey.  True,  you  have  lost  an  uncle;  but  I — I  have 
lost  a  wife — such  a  wife! — the  first  of  her  sex — and  the  sec- 


SCENE  VII]  MONEY  113 

oad  cousin  of  the  defunct!     Excuse  me,  Sir  John;  at  the 
sight  of  your  mourning  my  wounds  bleed  afresh. 

[Servants  hand  round  wine  and  sandwiches. 

Sir  John.  Take  some  refreshment — a  glass  of  wine. 

Graves.  Thank  you! — (very  fine  sherry!) — Ah!  my  poor 
sainted  Maria!  Sherry  was  her  wine:  everything  reminds 
me  of  Maria!  Ah,  Lady  Franklin!  you  knew  her.  Noth- 
ing in  life  can  charm  me  now. — [Aside.']  A  monstrous  fine 
woman  that! 

Sir  John.  And  now  to  business.     Evelyn,  you  may  retire. 

Sharp,  [looking  at  his  notes'].  Evelyn — Any  relation  to 
Alfred  Evelyn? 

Uve.   The  same. 

Sharp.  Cousin  to  the  deceased,  seven  times  removed. 
Be  seated,  sir;  there  may  be  some  legacy,  though  trifling: 
all  the  relations,  however  distant,  should  be  present. 

Lady  Frank.  Then  Clara  is  related — I  will  go  for  her. 

[Exit. 

Geor.  Ah,  Mr.  Evelyn;  I  hope  you  will  come  in  for 
something — a  few  hundreds,  or  even  more. 

Sir  John.   Silence!     Hush!  Whugh!  ugh!  Attention! 
[  While  the  Lawyer  opens  the  will.,  re-enter  Lady  Frank- 
LiN  and  Clara. 

Sharp.  The  will  is  very  short — being  all  personal  prop- 
erty.    He  was  a  man  that  always  came  to  the  point. 

Sir  John.  I  wish  there  were  more  like  him! — [Groans  and 
shakes  his  head.]  [Chorus  groan  and  shake  their  heads. 

Sharp,  [reading].  "I,  Frederick  James  Mordaunt,  of  Cal- 
cutta, being  at  present  date  of  sound  mind,  though  infirm 
body,  do  hereby  give,  will  and  bequeath — Imprimis,  To 
my  second  cousin,  Benjamin  Stout,  Esq.,  of  Pall  Mall, 
London [Ghorus  exhibit   lively  emotion. 


Hi  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  i 

Being  the  value  of  the  Parliamentary  Debates  with  which 
he  has  been  pleased  to  trouble  me  for  some  time  past — 
deducting  the  carriage  thereof,  which  he  always  forgot 
to  pay — the  sum  of  £14  2s.   4c?. 

[Chorus  breathe  more  freely. 

Stout.  Eh,  what? — £14?     Oh,  hang  the  old  miser  I 

/Sir  John.  Decency — decency!     Proceed,  sir. 

Sharp.  "Item. — To  Sir  Frederick  Blount,  Baronet,  my 
nearest  male  relative "     \_Chorus  exhibit  lively  emotion. 

Blount.  Poor  old  boy ! 

[GrEORGiNA  puts  her  arm  over  Blount's  chair. 

Sharp.  "Being,  as  1  am  informed,  the  best-dressed 
young  gentleman  in  London,  and  in  testimony  to  the  only 
merit  1  ever  heard  he  possessed,  the  sum  of  £500  to  buy 
a  dressing-case." 

[Chorus    breathe    more   freely;    Georgina    catches    her 
father's  eye,  and  removes  her  arm. 

Blount  [laughing  confusedhj].  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Vewy  poor 
wit — low! — vewy — vewy  low! 

Sir  Jo}in.  Silence,  now,  will  you? 

Sharp,  "Item. — To  Charles  Lord  Glossmore — who  asserts 
that  he  is  my  relation — my  collection  of  dried  butterflies, 
and  the  pedigree  of  the  Mordaunts  from  the  reign  of  King 
John."  [Chorus  as  before. 

Gloss.  Butterflies! — Pedigree! — I  disown  the  plebeian! 

Sir  John  [angrily].  Upon  my  word,  this  is  too  revolting! 
Decency!     Gro  on. 

Sharp.  "Item. — To  Sir  John  Vesey,  Baronet,  Knight  of 
the  Guelph,  F.R.S.,  F.S.A.,  etc."  [Chorus  as  before. 

Sir  John.   Hush!     Now  it  is  really  interesting! 

Sharp.   "Who   married    my   sister,    and   who    sends    me 


SCENE  VII]  MONEY  115 

every  year  the  Cheltenham  waters,  which  nearly  gave  me 
my  death — 1  bequeath— the  empty  bottles." 

Sir  John.  Why,  the  ungrateful,  rascally,  old 

Chorus.  Decency,  Sir  John — decency. 

Sharp.  "Item. — To  Henry  Graves,  Esq.,  of  the  Al- 
laany "  [Chorus  as  before. 

Graves.  Pooh!  Gentlemen — my  usual  luck — not  even  a 
ring  I  dare  swear! 

Sharp.  "The  sum  of  £5,000  in  the  Three  Per  Cents." 

Lady  Frank.  1  wish  you  joy! 

Graves.  Joy — pooh!  Three  per  Gents! — Funds  sure  to 
go!  Had  it  been  land,  now — though  only  an  acre! — ^just 
like  my  luck. 

Sharp.  "Item. — To  my  niece  Georgina  Yesey " 

[Chorus  as  before. 

Sir  John.  Ah,  now  it  comes ! 

Sharp.  "The  sum  of  £10,000  India  Stock,  being,  with 
her  father's  reputed  savings,  as  much  as  a  single  woman 
ought  to  possess." 

Sir  John.  And  what  the  devil,  then,  does  the  old  fool  do 
with  all  his  money? 

Chorus.  Really,  Sir  John,  this  is  too  revolting.  Decency! 
Hush! 

Sharp.  "And,  with  the  aforesaid  legacies  and  exceptions, 
I  do  will  and  bequeath  the  whole  of  my  fortune,  in  India 
Stock,  Bonds,  Exchequer  Bills,  Three  per  Cent  Consols, 
and  in  the  Bank  of  Calcutta  (constituting  him  hereby  sole 
residuary  legatee  and  joint  executor  with  the  aforesaid 
Henry  Graves,  Esq.),  to  Alfred  Evelyn,  now,  or  formerly 
of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge —  [Universal  excitement. 

Being,  I  am  told,  an  oddity,  like  myself — the  only  one  of 
my  relations  who  never  fawned  on  me;  and  who,  having 


116  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  I 

known  privation,  may  the  better  employ  wealth." — And 
now,  sir,  I  have  only  to  wish  you  joy,  and  give  you  this 
letter  from  the  deceased — I  believe  it  is  important. 

Eve.  [crossing  over  to  Claea].  Ah,  Clara,  if  you  had  but 
loved  me  I 

Clara  [turning  away].  And  his  wealth,  even  more  than 
poverty,  separates  us  forever! 

[Omnes  crowd  rouiid  to  congratulate  EvELYN. 

Sir  John  [to  Georgina].  Go,  child — put  a  good  face  on 
it — he's  an  immense  match! — My  dear  fellow,  I  wish  you 
joy:  you  are  a  great  man  now — a  very  great  man! 

Eve,  [aside].  And  her  voice  alone  is  silent! 

Lord  Gloss.  If  I  can  be  of  any  use  to  you 

Stout.  Or  I,  sir 

Blount.  Or  I!     Shall  I  put  you  up  at  the  clubs? 

Sharp.  You  will  want  a  man  of  business.  I  transacted 
all  Mr.  Mordaunt's  affairs. 

Sir  John.  Tush,  tush!  Mr.  Evelyn  is  at  home  here — 
always  looked  on  him  as  a  son!  Nothing  in  the  world  we 
would  not  do  for  him!     Nothing! 

Eve.  Lend  me  £10  for  my  old  nurse! 

[Chorus  put  their  hands  into  their  pockets. 


SCENE  I]  MONEY  1^^7 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I. 

An  anteroom  in  Evelyn's  7ieiv  house  ;  at  one  corner,  behind 
a  large  screen,  Mr.  Sharp,  writing  at  a  desk,  books  and  parch- 
ments before  him. — Mr.  Crimson,  the  portrait  pai7iter ;  Mr. 
Grab,  the  puhlisher ;  Mr.  MacStucco,  the  architect;  Mr. 
Tabouret,  the  upholsterer  ;  Mr.  MacFinch,  the  silversmith  ; 
Mr.  Patent,  the  coachmaker ;  Mr.  Kite,  the  horsedealer ; 
and  Mr.  Frantz,  the  tailor. — (Servants  cross  to  and  fro 
the  stage.) 

Patent  [to  Frantz,  showing  a  drawing'].  Yes,  sir;  this  is 
the  Evelyn  vis-a-vis!  No  one  more  the  fashion  than  Mr, 
Evelyn.     Money  makes  the  man,  sir, 

Frantz.  But  de  tailor,  de  Schneider,  make  de  gentleman! 
It  is  Mr.  Frantz,  of  St,  James's,  who  take  his  measure  and 
his  cloth,  and  who  make  de  fine  handsome  noblemen  and 
gentry,  where  the  faders  and  de  mutters  make  only  de  ugly 
little  naked  boys! 

MacStuc.  He's  a  mon  o'  teeste,  Mr.  Evelyn.  He  taulks 
o'  buying  a  veela  (villa),  just  to  pool  down  and  build  oop 
again, — Ah,  Mr.  MacFinch!  a  design  for  a  piece  of 
pleete,  eh? 

MacFinch  [showing  the  drawing"}.  Yees,  sir;  the  shield  o' 
Alexander  the  Grreat,  to  hold  ices  and  lemonade !  It  will 
cost  two  thousand  poon' ! 

MacjStuc.  And  it's  dirt  cheap — ye're  Scotch,  arn't  ye? 


118  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ii 

MacFinch.  Arberdounshire! — scraitch  me,  and  I'll  scraitch 

you!  \Door  at  the  back  thrown  open. — Enter  Evelyn. 

.  Eve.  A  levee,  as  usual.     Good-day.     Ah,  Tabouret,  your 

designs  for  the  draperies;  very  well.      And  what  do  you 

want,  Mr.  Crimson? 

Grim.  Sir,  if  you'd  let  me  take  your  portrait,  it  would 
make  my  fortune.  Every  one  says  you're  the  finest  judge 
of  paintings. 

Eve.  Of  paintings!  paintings!  Are  you  sure  I'm  a  judge 
of  paintings? 

Crim.  Oh,  sir,  didn't  you  buy  the  great  Correggio  for 
£4,000. 

Eve.  True — I  see.  So  £4,000  makes  me  an  excellent 
judge  of  paintings.  I'll  call  on  you,  Mr.  Crimson, — good- 
day.  Mr.  Grab — oh,  you're  the  publisher  who  once  refused 
me  £5  for  a  poem?     You  are  right,  it  was  a  sad  doggerel. 

Grab.  Doggerel!  Mr.  Evelyn,  it  was  sublime!  But  times 
were  bad  then. 

Eve.  Very  bad  times  with  me. 

Orab.  But  now,  sir,  if  you  will  give  me  the  preference, 
I'll  push  it,  sir — I'll  push  it!  I  only  publish  for  poets  in 
high  life,  sir;  and  a  gentleman  of  your  station  ought  to  be 
pushed! — £500  for  the  poem,  sir! 

Eve.  £500  when  I  don't  want  it,  where  £5  once  would 
have  seemed  a  fortune. 

"Now  I  am  rich,  what  value  in  the  lines! 
How  the  wit  brightens — how  the  sense  refines  1" 

[Turns  to  the  rest  who  surround  him. 
Kite.  Thirty  young  horses  from  Yorkshire,  sir! 
Patent  [showing  drawing].  The  Evelyn  vis-a-vis! 
MacFinch  [showing  drawing].  The  Evelyn  salver  I 


SCENE  II]  MONEY  119 

Frantz  [opening  his  bundle,  and  with  dignity].  Sare,  I  have 
brought  de  coat — de  great  Evelyn  coat. 

Eve.  Oh,  go  to that  is,  go  home!  Make  me  as  cel- 
ebrated for  vis-a-vis,  salvers,  furniture,  and  coats,  as  I 
already  am  for  painting,  and  shortly  shall  be  for  poetry. 
I  resign  myself  to  you — go! 

[Exeunt  MacFinch,  Patent,  etc. 

Enter  Stout. 

Eve.  Stout,  you  look  heated! 

Stout.  I  hear  you  have  Just  bought  the  great  Grroginhole 
property. 

Eve.  It  is  true.     Sharp  says  it's  a  bargain. 

Stout.  Well,  my  dear  friend  Hopkins,  member  for  Grrog- 
inhole, can't  live  another  month — but  the  interests  of  man- 
kind forbid  regret  for  individuals!  The  patriot  Popkins 
intends  to  start  for  the  borough  the  instant  Hopkins  is 
dead! — your  interest  will  secure  his  election! — now  is  your 
time!  put  yourself  forward  in  the  march  of  enlighten- 
ment!  By  all   that   is    bigoted,   here   comes  Glossmorel 


SCENE   II. 

Stout,  Glossmore,  Evelyn;  Sharp  still  at  his  desk. 

Gloss.  So  lucky  to  find  you  at  home!  Hopkins,  of  Grrog- 
inhole, is  not  long  for  this  world.  Popkins,  the  brewer,  is 
already  canvassing  underhand  (so  very  ungentlemanlike!). 
Keep  your  interest  for  young  Lord  Cipher — a  most  valuable 
candidate.  That  is  an  awful  moment — the  constitution 
depends  on  his  return!     Vote  for  Cipher. 


120  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  u 

IStout.  Popkins  is  your  man! 

Eve.  [musingly].  Cipher  and  Popkins  —  Popkins  and 
Cipher!  Enlightenment  and  Popkins  —  Cipher  and  the 
Constitution!  1  am  puzzled!  Stout,  1  am  not  known 
at   Grroginhole. 

Stout.  Your  property's  known  there! 

Eve.  But  purity  of  election — independence  of  votes 

Stout.  To  be  sure:  Cipher  bribes  abominably.  Frustrate 
his  schemes — preserve  the  liberties  of  the  borough — turn 
every  man  out  of  his  house  who  votes  against  enlighten- 
ment and  Popkins! 

Eve.  Right! — down  with  those  who  take  the  liberty  to 
admire  any  liberty  except  our  liberty!     That  is  liberty! 

Gloss.  Cipher  lias  a  stake  in  the  country — will  have 
£50,000  a  year — Cipher  will  never  give  a  vote  without 
considering  beforehand  how  people  of  £50,000  a  year  will 
be  affected  by  the  motion. 

Eve.  Eight:  for  as  without  law  there  would  be  no  prop- 
erty, so  to  be  the  law  for  property  is  the  only  proper 
property  of  law! — That  is  law! 

Stout.  Popkins  is  all  for  economy — there's  a  sad  waste 
of  the  public  money — they  give  the  Speaker  £5,000  a  year, 
when  I've  a  brother-in-law  who  takes  the  chair  at  the 
vestry,  and  who  assures  me  confidentially  he'd  consent  to 
be  Speaker  for  half  the  money! 

Gloss.  Enough,  Mr.  Stout. — Mr.  Evelyn  has  too  much 
at  stake  for  a  leveller. 

Stout.  And  too  much  sense  for  a  bigot. 

Eve.  Mr.  Evelyn  has  no  politics  at  all! — Did  you  ever 
play  at  battledore? 

Both.  Battledore?    . 

Eve.  Battledore! — that  is  a  contest  between  two  parties: 


SCENE  II]  MONEY  121 

both  parties  knock  about  something  with  singular  skill — 
something  is  kept  up — high — low — here — there — everywhere 
— nowhere!  How  grave  are  the  players!  how  anxious  the 
bystanders!  how  noisy  the  battledores!  But  when  this 
something  falls  to  the  ground,  only  fancy — it's  nothing 
but  cork  and  feather!  Go,  and  play  by  yourselves — I'm 
no  hand  at  it! 

Stout  [aside].  Sad  ignorance! — Aristocrat! 

Oloss.  Heartless  principles! — Parvenu! 

Stout.  Then  you  don't  go  against  us? — I'll  bring  Popkins 
to-morrow. 

Gloss.  Keep  yourself  free  till  I  present  Cipher  to  you. 

StoiU.  I  must  go  to  inquire  after  Hopkins.  The  return 
of  Popkins  will  be  an  era  in  history.  [Exit. 

Gloss.  I  must  be  off  to  the  club — the  eyes  of  the  country 
are  upon  Groginhole.  If  Cipher  fail,  the  Constitution  is 
gone!  [Mcit. 

Eve.  Both  sides  alike!  Money  t;ers?fs  Man! — Sharp,  come 
here — let  me  look  at  you!  You  are  my  agent,  my  lawyer, 
my  man  of  business.  I  believe  you  honest; — but  what  is 
honesty? — where  does  it  exist? — in  what  part  of  us? 

Sharp.  In  the  heart,  I  suppose,  sir. 

Eve.  Mr.  Sharp,  it  exists  in  the  breeches-pocket!  Ob- 
serve: I  lay  this  piece  of  yellow  earth  on  the  table — I 
contemplate  you  both;  the  man  there — the  gold  here!  Now, 
there  is  many  a  man  in  those  streets  honest  as  you  are,  who 
moves,  thinks,  feels  and  reasons  as  well  as  we  do;  excellent 
in  form — imperishable  in  soul;  who,  if  his  pockets  were 
three  days  empty,  would  sell  thought,  reason,  body,  and 
soul  too,  for  that  little  coin!  Is  that  the  fault  of  the 
man? — no!  it  is  the  fault  of  mankind!  God  made  man; 
behold  what  mankind  have  made  a  god!  When  I  was 
Bulwer,  Vol.  XXX  *F 


122  BULWERS    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  il 

poor,    I   hated   the    world;    now   I   am   rich,   I  despise  it. 

Fools — knaves — hypocrites! By    the    bye,    Sharp,    send 

£100  to  the  poor  bricklayer  whose  house  was  burned 
down   yesterday ! 

Enter  Graves. 

Ah,  Graves,  my  dear  friend!  what  a  world  this  is! — a  cur 
of  a  world,  that  fawns  on  its  master  and  bites  the  beggar! 
Ha!  ha!  it  fawns  on  me  now,  for  the  beggar  has  bought 
the  cur. 

Graves.  It  is  an  atrocious  world! — But  astronomers  say 
that  there  is  a  travelling  comet  which  must  set  it  on  fire 
one  day, — and  that's  some  comfort! 

Eve.  Every  hour  brings  its  gloomy  lesson — the  temper 
sours — the  affections  wither — the  heart  hardens  into  stone! 
Zounds,  Sharp!  what  do  you  stand  gaping  there  for? — 
have  you  no  bowels? — why  don't  you  go  and  see  to  the 
bricklayer?  {Exit  Sharp. 

SCENE   III. 
Graves  and  Evelyn. 

Eve.  Graves,  of  all  my  new  friends — and  their  name  is 
Legion — you  are  the  only  one  I  esteem;  there  is  sympathy 
between  us — we  take  the  same  views  of  life.  I  am  cordially 
glad  to  see  you! 

Graves,  [groaninr/].  Ah!  why  should  you  be  glad  to  see 
a  man  so  miserable? 

Eve.  Because  I  am  miserable  myself. 

Graves.  You!  Pshaw!  you  have  not  been  condemned  to 
lose  a  wife! 


scr;NE  in]  MONEY  1-3 

Eve.  But  plague  on  it,  man,  I  may  be  condemned  to  take 
one! — Sit  down,  and  listen.  I  want  a  confidant! — 'Left  fa- 
therless, when  yet  a  boy,  my  poor  mother  grudged  herself 
food  to  give  me  education.  Some  one  had  told  her  that 
learning  was  better  than  house  and  land — that's  a  lie, 
Graves. 

Graves.  A  scandalous  lie,  Evelyn! 

Eve.  On  the  strength  of  that  lie  I  was  put  to  school — sent 
to  college,  a  sizar.  Do  you  know  what  a  sizar  is?  In  pride 
he  is  a  gentleman — in  knowledge  he  is  a  scholar — and  he 
crawls  about,  amidst  gentlemen  and  scholars,  with  the  liv- 
ery of  a  pauper  on  his  back!  1  carried  off  the  great  prizes 
— I  became  distinguished — I  looked  to  a  high  degree,  lead- 
ing to  a  fellowship;  that  is,  an  independence  for  myself — 
a  home  for  my  mother.  One  day  a  young  Lord  insulted 
me — I  retorted — he  struck  me — refused  apology — refused 
redress.  I  was  a  sizar! — a  Pariah! — a  thing  to  be  struck! 
Sir,  I  was  at  least  a  man,  and  I  horsewhipped  him  in  the 
hall  before  the  eyes  of  the  whole  College!  A  few  days, 
and  the  Lord's  chastisement  was  forgotten.  The  next  day 
the  sizar  was  expelled — the  career  of  a  life  blasted!  That 
is  the  difference  between  Eich  and  Poor:  it  takes  a  whirl- 
wind to  move  the  one — a  breath  may  uproot  the  other!  I 
came  to  London.  As  long  as  my  mother  lived,  I  had  one 
to  toil  for;  and  I  did  toil — did  hope — did  struggle  to  be 
something  yet.  She  died,  and  then,  somehow,  my  spirit 
broke — I  resigned  myself  to  my  fate;  the  Alps  above  me 
seemed  too  high  to  ascend — I  ceased  to  care  what  became 
of  me.  At  last  I  submitted  to  be  the  poor  relation — the 
hanger-on  and  gentleman-lackey  of  Sir  John  Vesey.  But 
I  had  an  object  in  that — there  was  one  in  that  house  whom 
I  had  loved  at  the  first  sight. 


124  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ii 

(jfraves.   And  were  you  loved  again  ? 

Eve.  I  fancied  it,  and  was  deceived.  Not  an  hour  before 
I  inherited  this  mighty  wealth  I  confessed  my  love  and  was 
rejected  because  I  was  poor.  Now,  mark:  you  remember 
the  letter  which  Sharp  gave  me  when  the  will  was  read? 

Graves.  Perfectly;  what  were  the  contents? 

Eve.  After  hints,  cautions,  and  admonitions — half  in 
irony,  half  in  earnest  (Ah,  poor  Mordaunt  had  known 
the  world!),  it  proceeded — but  I'll  read  it  to  you: — "Hav- 
ing selected  you  as  my  heir,  because  I  think  money  a  trust 
be  placed  where  it  seems  likely  to  be  best  employed,  I  now 
• — not  impose  a  condition,  but  ask  a  favor.  If  you  have 
formed  no  other  and  insuperable  attachment,  I  could  wish 
to  suggest  your  choice;  my  two  nearest  female  relations  are 
my  niece  Georgina,  and  my  third  cousin,  Clara  Douglas, 
the  daughter  of  a  once  dear  friend.  If  you  could  see  in 
either  of  these  one  whom  you  could  make  your  wife,  such 
would  be  a  marriage  that,  if  I  live  long  enough  to  return 
to  England,  I  would  seek  to  bring  about  before  I  die." 
My  friend,  this  is  not  a  legal  condition — the  fortune  does 
not  rest  on  it;  yet,  need  I  say  that  my  gratitude  considers 
it  a  moral  obligation?  Several  months  have  elapsed  since 
thus  called  upon — I  ought  now  to  decide:  you  hear  the 
names — Clara  Douglas  is  the  woman  who  rejected  me! 

Graves.   But  now  she  would  accept  you! 

Eve.  And  do  you  think  I  am  so  base  a  slave  to  passion 
that  1  would  owe  to  my  gold  what  was  denied  to  my  affec- 
tion ? 

Graves.  But  you  must  choose  one,  in  common  gratitude; 
you  ought  to  do  so — yes,  there  you  are  right.  Besides,  you 
are  constantly  at  the  house — the  world  observes  it:  you 
must  have  raised  hopes  in  one  of  the  girls.     Yes;  it  is  time 


SCENE  III]  MONEY  125 

to  decide  between  her  whom  you  love  and  her  whom  you 
do  not! 

Eve.  Of  the  two,  then,  I  would  rather  marry  where  I 
should  exact  the  least.  A  marriage,  to  which  each  can 
bring  sober  esteem  and  calm  regard,  may  not  be  happiness, 
but  it  may  be  content.  But  to  marry  one  whom  you  could 
adore,  and  whose  heart  is  closed  to  you — to  yearn  for  the 
treasure,  and  only  to  claim  the  casket — to  worship  the 
statue  that  you  never  may  warm  to  life — Oh!  such  a  mar- 
riage would  be  a  hell,  the  more  terrible  because  Paradise 
was  in  sight! 

Graves.  Georgina  is  pretty,  but  vain  and  frivolous. — 
[Aside.']  Bat  he  has  no  right  to  be  fastidious — he  has 
never  known  Maria!  —  [Aloud.']  Yes,  my  dear  friend, 
now  I  think  on  it,  you  luill  be  as  wretched  as  myself! 
— When  you  are  married,  we  will  mingle  our  groans 
together! 

Eve.  You  may  misjudge  Georgina;  she  may  have  a  nobler 
nature  than  appears  on  the  surface.  On  the  day,  but  before 
the  hour,  in  which  the  will  was  read,  a  letter,  in  a  strange 
or  disguised  hand,  signed  ^''From  an  unknown  friend  t'o 
Alfred  Evelyn.,^''  and  inclosing  what  to  a  girl  would  have 
been  a  considerable  sum,  was  sent  to  a  poor  woman  for 
whom  I  had  implored  charity,  and  whose  address  I  had 
only  given  to  Georgina. 

Graves.   Why  not  assure  yourself  ? 

Eve.  Because  I  have  not  dared.  For  sometimes,  against 
my  reason,  1  have  hoped  that  it  might  be  Clara!  [taking 
a  letter  from  his  bosom  and  looking  at  it].  No,  I  can't  recog- 
nize the  hand.     Graves,  1  detest  that  girl. 

Graves.   Who?  Georgina? 

Eve.  No;  Clara!     But  I've  already,  thank  Heaven!  taken 


126  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ii 

some  revenge  upon  her.  Come  nearer. — [Whispers.'\  I've 
bribed  Sharp  to  say  that  Mordaunt's  letter  to  me  con- 
tained a  codicil  leaving  Clara  Douglas  £20,000. 

Graves.  And  didn't  it?  How  odd,  then,  not  to  have 
mentioned  her  in  his  will! 

Eve.  One  of  his  caprices:  besides,  Sir  John  wrote  him 
word  that  Lady  Franklin  had  adopted  her.  But  I'm  glad 
of  it — I've  paid  the  money — she's  no  more  a  dependant. 
No  one  can  insult  her  now — she  owes  it  all  to  me,  and 
does  not  guess  it,  man — does  not  guess  it! — owes  it  to  me, 
— me,  whom  she  rejected; — me,  the  poor  scholar !^ — Ha! 
ha! — there's  some  spite  in  that,  eh? 

Graves.  You're  a  fine  fellow,  Evelyn,  and  we  understand 
each  other.  Perhaps  Clara  may  have  seen  the  address  and 
dictated  this  letter  after  all! 

Eve.  Do  you  think  so? — I'll  go  to  the  house  this  in- 
stant ! 

Graves.  Eh?  Humph!  Then  I'll  go  with  you.  That 
Lady  Franklin  is  a  fine  woman!  If  she  were  not  so 
ga}^,  I  think — I  could 

Foe.  No,  no;  don't  think  any  such  thing;  women  are 
even  worse  than  men. 

Graves.  True;  to  love  is  a  boy's  madness! 

Eve.   To  feel  is  to  suffer. 

Graves.  To  hope  is  to  be  deceived. 

Eue.  I  have  done  with  romance! 

Graves.   Mine  is  buried  wi+^h  Maria! 

Eve.  If  Clara  did  but  write  this 

Graves.  Make  haste,  or  Lady  Franklin  will  be  out! — A 
vale  of  tears! — a  vale  of  tears! 

Eve.  A  vale  of  tears,  indeed!  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  IV]  MONEY  127 

Re-enter  Graves  for  his  hat. 
Graves.   And  I  left  my  hat  behind  me!     Just  my  luck! 
If  I  had  been  bred  a  hatter,  little  boys  would  come  into  the 
world  without  heads.'  \Ex%t. 

SCENE    IV. 
Draw  lug -rooms  at  SiR  John  Vesey's,  as  in  Act  7. ,  Sceiie  I. 

Lady  Franklin,  Clara,  Servant. 

Lady  Frank.  Past  two,  and  I  have  so  many  places  to  go 
to!     Tell  Philipps  I  want  the  carriage  directly — instantly. 

Ser.  I  beg  pardon,  my  lady ;  Philipps  told  me  to  say  the 
young  horse  had  fallen  lame,  and  could  not  be  used  to-day. 

[Fxit. 

Lady  Frank.  Well,  on  second  thoughts,  that  is  lucky; 
now  I  have  an  excuse  for  not  making  a  great  many  tedious 
visits,  I  must  borrow  Sir  John's  horses  for  the  ball  to- 
night. Ob,  Clara,  you  must  see  my  new  turban  from 
Carson's — the  prettiest  thing  in  the  world  and  so  be- 
coming! 

Clara.  Ab,  Lady  Franklin,  you'll  be  so  sorry — but — 
but 

Lady  Frank.  But  what? 

Clara.  Such  a  misfortune!  poor  Smith  is  in  tears— I 
promised  to  break  it  to  j^ou.  Your  little  Charley  had 
been  writing  his  copy,  and  spilt  the  ink  on  the  table;  and 
Smith  not  seeing  it — and  taking  out  the  turban  to  put  in 
the  pearls  as  you  desired — she — she 


'  For  this  melancholy  jest  Mr.  Graves  ia  indebted  to  a  poor  Italian  poet. 


128  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ii 

Lady  Frank.  Ha!  ha!  laid  it  on  the  table,  and  the  ink 
spoilt  it.  Ha!  ha! — how  well  I  can  fancy  the  face  she 
made!  Seriously,  on  the  whole  it  is  fortunate;  fori  think 
I  look  best,  after  all,  in  the  black  hat  and  feathers. 

Clara.  Dear  Lady  Franklin,  you  really  have  the  sweetest 
temper! 

Lady  Frank.  I  hope  so,  for  it's  the  most  becoming  turban 
a  woman  can  wear!  Think  of  that  when  you  marry.  Oh, 
talking  of  marriage,  I've  certainly  made  a  conquest  of 
Mr.  Graves. 

Clara.  Mr.  Graves!     I  thought  he  was  inconsolable. 

Lady  Frank.  For  his  sainted  Maria!  Poor  man!  not  con- 
tented with  plaguing  him  while  she  lived,  she  must  needs 
haunt  him  now  she  is  dead. 

Clara.  But  why  does  he  regret  her? 

Lady  Frank.  Why?  Because  he  has  everything  to  make 
him  happy — easy  fortune — good  health,  respectable  char- 
acter. And  since  it  is  his  delight  to  be  miserable,  he 
takes  the  only  excuse  the  world  will  allow  him.  For  the 
rest — it's  the  way  with  widowers;  that  is,  whenever  they 
mean  to  marry  again.  But,  my  dear  Clara,  you  seem 
absent — pale — unhappy — tears,  too ? 

Clara.  No — no — not  tears.     No! 

Tjady  Frank.  Ever  since  Mr.  Mordaunt  left  you  £20,000 
every  one  admires  you.    Sir  Frederick  is  desperately  smitten. 

Clara  [ivith  disdain].  Sir  Frederick! 

Lady  Frank.  Ah!  Clara,  be  comforted — I  know  your 
secret:  I  am  certain  that  Evelyn  loves  you. 

Clara.  He  did — it — it  is  past  now.  He  misconceived  me 
when  he  was  poor;  and  now  he  is  rich,  it  is  not  for  me  to 
explain. 

Lady  Frank.  My  dear  child,  happiness  is  too  rare  to  be 


SCENE  IV]  MONEY  129 

sacrificed    to    a    scruple.      Why   does    he    come    here    so 
often? 

Clara.   Perhaps  for  Georgina! 

Enter  Sir  John,  and  turns  over  the  hooks.,  etc.,  on  the  table, 
as  if  to  look  for  the  newsjxqjer. 

Lady  Frank.  Pooh!  Georgina  is  my  niece;  she  is  hand- 
some and  accomplished — but  her  father's  worldliness  has 
spoilt  her  nature — she  is  not  worthy  of  Evelyn!  Behind 
the  humor  of  his  irony  there  is  something  noble — something 
that  may  yet  be  great.  For  his  sake  as  well  as  yours,  let 
me  at  least 

Clara.  Recommend  m-e  to  his  pity?  Ah,  Lady  Franklin! 
if  he  addressed  me  from  dictation,  I  should  again  refuse 
liim.  No ;  if  he  cannot  read  my  heart — if  he  will  not  seek 
to  read  it,  let  it  break  unknown. 

Lady  Frank.  You  mistake  me,  my  dear  child:  let  me 
only  tell  him  that  you  dictated  that  letter — that  you  sent 
that  money  to  his  old  nurse.  Poor  Clara!  it  was  your  little 
all.     He  will  then  know,  at  least,  if  avarice  be  your  sin. 

Clara.  He  would  have  guessed  it  had  his  love  been  like 
mine. 

Lady  Frank.  Guessed  it! — nonsense!  The  handwriting 
unknown  to  him — every  reason  to  think  it  came  from 
Georgina. 

Sir  John  \aside'\.  Hum!     Came  from  Georgina! 

Lady  Frank.  Come,  let  me  tell  him  this.  I  know  the 
effect  it  would  have  upon  his  choice. 

Clara.  Choice!  oh,  that  humiliating  word!  No,  Lady 
franklin,  no!     Promise  me! 

Lady  Frank.   But 

Clara.  No!     Promise — faithfully — sacredly. 

Lady  Frank.  Well,  I  promise. 


180  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  II 

Clara.  You  know  how  fearful  is  my  character — no  infant 
is  more  timid:  if  a  poor  spider  cross  the  floor,  you  often 
laugh  to  see  me  grow  pale  and  tremble;  and  yet  1  would 
lay  this  hand  upon  the  block — I  would  walk  barefoot  over 
the  plowshare  of  the  old  ordeal — to  save  Alfred  Evelyn  one 
moment's  pain.  But  I  have  refused  to  share  his  poverty, 
and  I  should  die  with  shame  if  he  thouglit  I  had  now  grown 
enamored  of  his  wealth.  My  kind  friend,  you  will  keep 
your  promise? 

Lady  Frank.  Yes,  since  it  must  be  so. 

Clara.  Thanks.    I — I — forgive  me — I  am  not  well.     [Exit. 

Lady  Frank.  What  fools  these  girls  are! — they  take  as 
much  pains  to  lose  a  husband  as  a  poor  widow  does  to 
get  one! 

tiir  John.  Have  you  seen  "The  Times"  newspaper? 
Where  tbe  deuce  is  the  newspaper?  I  can't  find  "The 
Times"  newspaper. 

Lady  Frank.  I  think  it  is  in  my  room.     Shall  1  fetch  it? 

Sir  John.  My  dear  sister — you're  the  best  creature.     Do! 

[Exit  Lady  Franklin. 
Ugh!  you  unnatural  conspirator  against  your  own  family! 
What  can  this  letter  be  ?     Ah !  I  recollect  something. 

Enter  Georgina. 

Gear.  Papa,  I  want 

Sir  John.  Yes,  I  know  what  you  want  well  enough! 
Tell  me — were  you  aware  that  Clara  had  sent  money  to 
that  old  nurse  Evelyn  bored  us  about  the  day  of  the  will  ? 

Geor.  No!     He  gave  me  the  address  and  I  promised,  if 

Sir  John.  Gave  you  the  address? — that's  lucky!     Hush) 

Enter  Servant. 
Ser.   Mr.  Graves — Mr.  Evelyn. 


SCENE  vl  MONEY  131 


SCENE   V. 
G-RAVES,  Evelyn,  Sir  John,  Geoegina,  Lady  Franklin. 

Lady  Frank,  [return'mg].   Here  is  the  newspaper. 

Graves.  Ay — read  the  newspapers! — they'll  tell  you  what 
this  world  is  made  of.  Daily  calendars  of  roguery  and  woe! 
Here,  advertisements  from  quacks,  money-lenders,  cheap 
warehouses,  and  spotted  boys  with  two  heads.  So  much  for 
dupes  and  impostors!  Turn  to  the  other  column — police 
reports,  bankruptcies,  swindling,  forgery,  and  a  biographi- 
cal sketch  of  the  snub-nosed  man  who  murdered  his  own 
three  little  cherubs  at  Pentonville.  Do  you  fancy  these  but 
exceptions  to  the  general  virtue  and  health  of  the  nation  ? — 
Turn  to  the  leading  articles;  and  your  hair  will  stand  on 
end  at  the  horrible  wickedness  or  melancholy  idiotism  of 
that  half  the  population  who  think  differently  from  your- 
self. In  my  day  I  have  seen  already  eighteen  crises,  six 
annihilations  of  Agriculture  and  Commerce,  four  over- 
throws of  the  Church,  and  three  last,  final,  awful,  and 
irremediable  destructions  of  the  entire  Constitution.  And 
that's  a  newspaper! 

Lady  Frank.  Ha!  ha!  your  usual  vein!  always  so  amusing 
and  good-humored! 

Graves  [^frowning  and  very  angry'].  Ma'am — good  hu- 
mored ! 

Lady  Frank.  Ah!  you  should  always  wear  that  agree- 
able smile;  you  look  so  much  younger — so  much  hand- 
somer— when  you  smile  1 


132  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ii 

Graves  \softened\.  Ma'am A  charming  creature,  upon 

my  word! 

Lady  Frank.  You  have  not  seen  the  last  HB.?  It  is 
excellent.  I  think  it  might  make  you  laugh.  But,  by  the 
bye,  1  don't  think  you  can  laugh. 

Graves.  Ma'am — I  have  not  laughed  since  the  death  of 
my  sainted  Ma 

Lady  Frank.  Ah!  and  that  spiteful  Sir  Frederick  says 
you  never  laugh,  because But  you'll  be  angry? 

Graves.  Angry ! — pooh !  I  despise  Sir  Frederick  too  much 
to  let  anything  he  says  have  the  smallest  influence  over  me! 
He  says  I  don't  laugh,  because 

Lady  Frank.  You  have  lost  your  front  teeth ! 

Graves.  Lost  my  front  teeth!  Upon  my  word!  Ha!  ha! 
ha!  That's  too  good — capital!  Ha!  ha!  ha!  [laughing  from 
ear  to  ear]. 

Lady  Frank.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

[They  retire  to  the  table  in  the  inner  drawing-room. 

Eve.  \aside'\.  Of  course  Clara  will  not  appear! — avoids 
me  as  usual!  But  what  do  I  care? — what  is  she  to  me? 
Nothing!  I'll  swear  this  is  her  glove! — no  one  else  has 
so  small  a  hand.  She'll  miss  it — so — so — !  Nobody's 
looking — I'll  keep  it,  just  to  vex  her. 

Sir  John  \to  Georgina].  Yes — yes — leave  me  to  manage: 
you  took  his  portrait,  as  I  told  you  ? 

Geor.  Yes — but  I  could  not  catch  the  expression.  I  got 
Clara  to  touch  it  up. 

Sir  John.  That  girl's  always  in  the  way! 

Enter  Captain  Dudley  Smooth. 
Smooth.    Good-morning,    dear   John.     Ah,    Miss    Vesey, 


SCENE  V]  MONEY  133 

you  have  no  idea  of  the  conquests  you  made  at  Almack's 
last  night! 

Eve.  [examining  him  curiously  lohile  Smooth  is  talking 
to  Georgina].  And  that's  the  celebrated  Dudley  Smooth! 

Sir  John.  More  commonly  called  Deadly  Smooth! — the 
finest  player  at  whist,  ecarte,  billiards,  chess,  and  picquet, 
between  this  and  the  Pyramids — the  sweetest  manners! — 
always  calls  you  by  your  Christian  name.  But  take  care 
how  you  play  at  cards  with  him! 

Eve.  He  does  not  cheat,  I  suppose? 

Sir  John.  Hist!  No! — but  he  always  loins I  Eats  up  a 
brace  of  Lords  and  a  score  or  two  of  guardsmen  every 
season,  and  runs  through  a  man's  fortune  like  a  course  of 
the  Carlsbad  waters.     He's  an  uncommonly  clever  fellow! 

Eve.  Clever?  yes!  When  a  man  steals  a  loaf  we  cry 
down  the  knavery — when  a  man  diverts  his  neighbor's 
mill-stream  to  grind  his  own  corn,  we  cry  up  the  clever- 
ness!— And  every  one  courts  Captain  Dudley  Smooth! 

Sir  John.  Why,  who  could  offend  him? — the  best-bred, 
civillest  creature — and  a  dead  shot!  There  is  not  a  cleverer 
man  in  the  three  kingdoms. 

Eve.  A  study — a  study ! — let  me  examine  him !  Such  men. 
are  living  satires  on  the  world. 

Smooth  [passing  his  arm  caressingly  over  Sir  John's 
shoulder'].  My  dear  John,  how  well  you  are  looking!  A 
new  lease  of  life!     Introduce  me  to  Mr,  Evelyn. 

Eve.  Sir,  it's  an  honor  I've  long  ardently  desired. 

[They  how  and  shake  hands. 

Enter  Sir  Frederick  Blount. 

Blou7it.  How  d'ye  do,  Sir  John?  Ah,  Evelyn — I  wished 
so  much  to  see  you. 


134  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ii 

Eve.   'Tis  my  misfortune  to  be  visible! 

Blount.  A  little  this  way.  You  know,  perhaps,  that  I 
once  paid  my  addwesses  to  Miss  Vesey;  but  since  that 
vewy  eccentwic  will  Sir  John  has  shuffled  me  off,  and 
bints  at  a  pwior  attachment — [aside]  which  I  know  to 
be  false. 

Eve.  \_seeing  Clara].  A  prior  attachment! — (Ha!  Clara!) 
Well,  another  time,  my  dear  Blount. 

Enter  Clara. 

Blount.  Stay  a  moment — 1  want  you  to  do  me  a  favor 
with  regard  to  Miss  Douglas. 

Eve.  Miss  Douglas! 

Blount.  Yes; — you  see,  though  Greorgina  has  gweat  ex- 
pectations, and  Stingy  Jack  will  leave  her  all  that  he  has, 
yet  she  has  only  her  legacy  of  iilO,000  at  the  moment — no 
doubt  closely  settled  on  herself  too!  Clawa  has  £20.000. 
And,  I  think,  Clawa  always  liked  me  a  little. 

Eve.  You !     I  dare  say  she  did ! 

Blount.  It  is  whispered  about  that  you  mean  to  pwopose 
to  Greorgina.  Nay,  Sir  John  more  than  hinted  that  was 
her  pwior  attachment! 

Eve.  Indeed! 

Blount.  Now,  as  you  are  all  in  all  with  the  family,  if  you 
could  say  a  word  for  me  to  Miss  Douglas,  I  don't  see  what 
harm  it  could  do  me! — [Aside.]  I  will  punish  Greorgina  for 
her  pwerfidy. 

Eve.  'Sdeath,  man!  speak  for  yourself!  you  are  just  the 
sort  of  man  for  young  ladies  to  like — they  understand  you 
— ^you're  of  their  own  level.  Pshaw!  you're  too  modest — 
you  want  no  mediator! 

Blount.  My  dear  fellow,  you  flatter  me.     I'm  well  enough 


SCENE  v]  ■  MONEY  135 

in  my  way.  But  you,  you  know,  would  cawwy  evewything 
before  you! — you're  so  confoundedly  wicli! 

Eve.  [turning  to  Clara].  Miss  Douglas,  what  do  you 
think  of  Sir  Frederick  Blount?  Observe  him.  He  is 
well  dressed — young — tolerably  handsome — (Blount  bow- 
ing) bows  with  an  air — has  plenty  of  small  talk — every- 
thing to  captivate.  Yet  he  thinks  that,  if  he  and  I  were 
suitors  to  the  same  lady,  I  should  be  more  successful  be- 
cause 1  am  richer. — What  say  you!  Is  love  an  auction? 
— and  do  women's  hearts  go  to  the  highest  bidder? 

Clara.  Their  hearts? — No. 

Eve.  But  their  hands — yes!  You  turn  away.  Ah,  you 
dare  not  answer  that  question! 

Geor.  [aside'].  Sir  Frederick  flirting  with  Clara?  I'll 
punish  him  for  his  perfidy.  You  are  the  last  person  to 
talk  so,  Mr.  Evelyn! — ^you,  whose  wealth  is  your  smallest 
attention — you,  whom  every  one  admires — so  witty,  such 
taste,  such  talent!     Ah,  I'm  very  foolish! 

Sir  John  [clapping  him  on  the  shoulder].  You  must  not 
turn  my  little  girl's  head.  Oh,  you're  a  sad  fellowl 
Apropos,  I  must  show  you  Georgina's  last  drawings. 
She  has  wonderfully  improved  since  you  gave  her  les- 
sons in  perspective. 

Geor.    Ko,  papa! — No,  pray,  no!    Nay,  don't! 

Sir  John.  Nonsense,  child! — it's  very  odd,  but  she's 
more  afraid  of  you  than  of  any  one! 

Smooth  [to  Blount  talcing  snuff].  He's  an  excellent  fa- 
ther, our  dear  John!  and  supplies  the  place  of  a  mother 
to  her.  [Turns  away  to  Lady  Franklin  and  Graves. 
[Evelyn  and  Georgina  seat  themselves.,  look  over  the 
drawings;  SiR  John  leans  over  tJlem;  Sir  Frederick 
converses  with  Clara;  Evelyn  loatching  them. 


136  BULWER'S    DRASIATIC    WORKS  [act  ii 

Eve.  Beautiful! — a  view  from  Tivoli.  (Death! — she  looks 
down  while  he  speaks  to  her!)  Is  there  a  little  fault  in 
that  coloring?     (She  positively  blushes!)     But  this  Jupiter 

is  superb.    (What  a  d d  coxcomb  it  is!)    \_Rising.'\    Oh, 

she  certainly  loves  him — I  too  can   be  loved  elsewhere — I 
too  can   see   smiles   and   blushes   on   the  face  of   another. 

Oeor.   Are  you  not  well? 

Eve.  I  beg  pardon.  Yes,  you  are  indeed  improved! 
Ah,  who  so  accomplished  as  Miss  Vesey  ? 

[Takes  up  the  drawi7igs ;   pays  her  marked  attention   in 
dumb  shoio. 

Clara.  Yes,  Sir  Frederick,  the  concert  was  very  crowded. 
— Ah,  I  see  that  Georgina  consoles  him  for  the  past!  He 
has  only  praises  for  her,  nothing  but  taunts  for  me! 

Blount.  1  wish  you  would  take  my  opewa-box  next  Satur- 
day— 'tis  the  best  in  the  house.  I'm  not  wich,  but  I  spend 
what  I  have  on  myself!  I  make  a  point  to  have  evewything 
the  best  in  a  quiet  way.  Best  opewa-box — best  dogs — best 
horses — best  house  of  its  kind.  1  want  nothing  to  complete 
my  establishment  but  the  best  wife! 

Clara  [abstractedly].  That  will  come  in  good  time.  Sir 
Frederick. 

Eve.  Oh,  it  will  come — will  it?  Georgina  refused  the 
trifler — she  courts  him  [taking  up  a  portrait].  Why,  what 
is  this? — my  own 

Geor.  You  must  not  look  at  that — you  must  not,  indeed. 
I  did  not  know  it  was  there. 

Sir  John.  Your  own  portrait,  Evelyn!  Why,  child,  I 
was  not  aware  yon  took  likenesses:  that's  something  new. 
Upon  my  word  it's  a  strong  resemblance. 

Geor.  Oh,  no — it  does  not  do  him  justice.  Give  it  to  me. 
I  will  tear  it.     [J.5^■c?e.]  That  odious  Sir  Frederick! 


SCENE  V]  MONEY  137 

Eve.  Nay,  you  shall  not. 

Clara.  So — so — he  loves  her,  then!  Misery — misery! 
But  he  shall  not  perceive  it!  No — no — I  can  be  proud 
too.  Ha!  ha! — Sir  Frederick — excellent — excellent — you 
are   so   entertaining — ha!    ha!    [laughs  hysterically]. 

Eve.  Oh,  the  affectation  of  coquettes — they  cannot  even 
laugh   naturally! 

[Clara  looks  at  him  reproachfully,  and  walks  aside  with 
Sir  Frederick. 

But  where  is  the  new  guitar  you  meant  to  buy.  Miss 
Vesey — the  one  inlaid  with  tortoise-shell?  It  is  nearly  a 
year  since  you  set  your  heart  on  it,  and  I  don't  see 
it  yet! 

Sir  John  \taking  hi^n  aside  confidentially].  The  guitar — 
oh,  to  tell  you  a  secret — she  applied  the  money  I  gave  her 
for  it  to  a  case  of  charity  several  months  ago — the  very  day 
the  will  was  read.  I  saw  the  letter  lying  on  the  table,  with 
the  money  in  it.  Mind,  not  a  word  to  her — she'd  never 
forgive  me! 

Eve.  Letter! — money.  What  WdS  the  name  of  the  person 
she  relieved — not  Stanton? 

/Sir  John.  I  don't  remember,  indeed! 

Eve.  [taking  out  the  letter].  This  is  not  her  hand! 

tSir  John.  No!  I  observed  at  the  time  it  was  not  her 
hand,  but  I  got  out  from  her  that  she  did  not  wish  the 
thing  to  he  knotvn,  and  had  employed  some  one  else  to  copy 
it.  May  I  see  the  letter?  Yes,  I  think  this  is  the  wording. 
But  I  did  not  mean  to  tell  you  what  case  of  charity  it  was. 
I  promised  Georgy  I  would  not.  Still,  how  did  she  know 
Mrs.  Stanton's  address? — you  never  gave  it  to  mel 

Eve.  I  gave  it  to  her.  Sir  John. 

Clara  [at  a  distance].   Yes,  I'll  go  to  the  opera,  if  Lady 


138  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ii 

Franklin  will.     Do  go,  dear  Lady  Franklin! — on  Saturday, 
then.  Sir  Frederick.  [Exit  Blount. 

Eve.  Sir  John,  to  a  man  like  me,  this  simple  act  of  unos- 
tentatious generosity  is  worth  all  the  accomplishments  in 
the  world.  A  good  heart — a  tender  disposition — a  charity 
that  shuns  the  day — a  modesty  that  blushes  at  its  own 
excellence — an  impulse  toward  something  more  divine  than 
Mammon; — such  are  the  true  accomplishments  which  pre- 
serve beauty  forever  young.  Such  I  have  sought  in  the 
partner  I  would  take  for  life; — such  have  I  found — alas! 
not  where  I  had  dreamed! — Miss  Vesey,  I  will  be  honest — 
I  say  then,  frankly — [as  Clara  approaches,  raising  his  voice 
and  looking  fixedly  at  herl — I  have  loved  another — deeply^ — 
truly — bitterly — vainly  !  I  cannot  offer  to  you,  as  I  did  to 
her,  the  fair  first  love  of  the  human  heart — rich  with  all  its 
blossoms  and  its  verdure.  But  if  esteem — if  gratitude — if 
an  earnest  resolve  to  conquer  every  recollection  that  would 
wander  from  your  image; — if  these  can  tempt  you  to  accept 
my  hand  and  fortune,  my  life  shall  be  a  study  to  deserve 
your  confidence. 

[Clara  stands  motionless,  clasping  her  hands,  and  then 
slowly  seats  herself. 

Sir  John.  The  happiest  day  of  my  life! 

[Clara /aZ/s  hack  in  her  chair. 

Eve.  [darting  forward^.  [Aside.']  She  is  pale;  she  faints! 
What  have  I  done?     O  Heaven! — Clara! 

Clara  [rising  with  a  smile].  Be  happy,  my  cousin — be 
happy!  Yes,  with  my  whole  heart  I  say  it — be  happy, 
Alfred  Evelyn! 


SCENE  I]  MONEY  139 


ACT   III.— SCENE  I. 
The  drawing -rooms  in  SiR  John  Vesey's  house. 

Sir  John,  Georgina. 

Sir  John.  And  he  has  not  pressed  you  to  fix  the  wedding- 
day? 

Gear.  No;  and  since  he  proposed  he  comes  here  so  sel- 
dom, and  seems  so  gloomy.  Heigho!  Poor  Sir  Frederick 
was  twenty  times  more  amusing. 

Sir  John.  But  Evelyn  is  fifty  times  as  rich! 

Oeor.  Sir  Frederick  dresses  so  well! 

Sir  John.  You'll  have  magnificent  diamonds;  but  a  word 
with  you:  I  saw  you  yesterday  in  the  square  with  Sir  Fred- 
erick ;  that  must  not  happen  again.  When  a  young  lady  is 
engaged  to  one  man,  nothing  is  so  indecorous  as  to  flirt  with 
another.  It  might  endanger  your  marriage  itself.  Oh,  it's 
highly  indecorous! 

Geor.  Don't  be  afraid,  papa, — he  takes  up  with  Clara. 

Sir  John.  Who,  Evelyn? 

Geor.  Sir  Frederick.     Heigho ! — I  hate  artful  girls. 

Sir  John.  The  settlements  will  be  splendid!  if  anything 
happens,  nothing  can  be  handsomer  than  your  jointure. 

Geor.  My  own  kind  papa,  you  always  put  things  so  pleas- 
antly. But  do  you  not  fear  lest  he  discover  that  Clara  wrote 
the  letter? 


140  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  hi 

Sir  John.  No;  and  I  shall  get  Clara  out  of  the  house. 
But  there  is  something  else  that  makes  me  very  uneasy. 
You  know  that  no  sooner  did  Evelyn  come  into  possession 
of  his  fortune  than  he  launched  out  in  the  style  of  a  prince. 
His  house  in  London  is  a  palace,  and  he  has  bought  a  great 
estate  in  the  country.  Look  how  he  lives! — Balls — ban- 
quets— fine  arts — fiddlers — charities — and  the  devil  to  pay! 

Geor.  But  if  he  can  afford  it 

Sir  John.  Oh  I  so  long  as  he  stopped  there  I  had  no  appre- 
hension; but  since  he  proposed  for  you  he  is  more  ex- 
travagant than  ever.  They  say  he  has  taken  to  gambling: 
and  he  is  always  with  Captain  Smooth!  No  fortune  can 
stand  Deadly  Smooth !  If  he  gets  into  a  scrape  he  may  fall 
off  from  the  settlements.  We  must  press  the  marriage  at 
once. 

Geor.  Heigho!  Poor  Frederick  I  You  don't  think  he  is 
really  attached  to  Clara! 

Sir  John.  Upon  my  word  I  can't  say.  Put  on  your 
bonnet,  and  come  to  Storr  and  Mortimer's  to  choose  the 
jewels. 

Geor.  The  jewels;  yes — the  drive  will  do  me  good.  So 
you'll  send  away  Clara? — she's  so  very  deceitful. 

Sir  John.  Never  fear — yes — tell  her  to  come  to  me. 

[Uxit  GrEORGINA. 

Yes!  I  must  press  on  this  marriage;  Georgina  has  not  wit 
enough  to  manage  him — at  least  till  he's  her  husband,  and 
then  all  women  find  it  smooth  sailing.  This  match  will 
make  me  a  man  of  prodigious  importance !  I  suspect  he'll 
give  me  up  her  ten  thousand  pounds.  I  can't  think  of  his 
taking  to  gambling,  for  I  love  him  as  a  son — and  I  look  on 
his  money  as  my  own. 


SCENE  II]  MONEY  lil 


SCENE   IL 
Clara  and  Sir  John. 

Sir  John.  Clara,  my  love! 

Clara.   Sir 

Sir  John.  My  dear,  what  I  am  going  to  say  may  appear 
a  little  rude  and  unkind,  but  you  know  my  character  is 
frankness.  To  the  point  then;  my  poor  child,  I  am  aware 
of  your  attachment  to  Mr.  Evelyn 

Clara.   Sir!   my  attachment? 

Sir  John.  It  is  generally  remarked.  Lady  Kind  says  you 
are  falling  away.  My  poor  girl,  I  pity  you — 1  do,  indeed! 
Now,  there's  that  letter  you  wrote  to  his  old  nurse — it  has 
got  about  somehow — and  the  world  is  so  ill-natured.  I 
don't  know  if  I  did  right;  but  after  he  had  proposed  to 
Greorgy — (of  course  not  before!) — I  thought  it  so  unpleasant 
for  you,  as  a  young  lady,  to  be  suspected  of  anything  for- 
ward with  respect  to  a  man  who  was  not  attached  to  you, 
that  I  rather  let  it  be  supposed  that  Georgy  herself  wrote 
the  letter. 

Clara.   Sir,  I  don't  know  what  right  you  had  to 

Sir  John.  That's  very  true,  my  dear:  and  I've  been  think- 
ing since  that  I  ought  perhaps  to  tell  Mr.  Evelyn  that  the 
letter  was  yours — shall  I? 

Clara.  No,  sir;  I  beg  you  will  not.     I — I — \_weeps\. 

Sir  John.  My  dear  Clara,  don't  cry;  I  would  not  have 
said  this  for  the  world,  if  I  was  not  a  little  anxious  about 


1-12  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  hi 

my  own  girl.  Georgia  a  is  so  unhappy  at  what  every  one 
says  of  your  attachment 

Clara.  Everyone? — Oh,  torturer 

Sir  John.  That  it  preys  on  her  spirits — it  even  irritates 
her  temper!  You  see,  although  the  marriage  will  take  place 
almost  immediately,  Mr.  Evelyn  does  not  come  so  often  as 
he  ought.  In  a  word,  I  fear  these  little  jealousies  and  sus- 
picions will  tend  to  imbitter  their  future  union, — I'm  a 
father — forgive  me. 

Clara.  Imbitter  their  union!  Oh,  never!  What  would 
you  have  me  do,  sir  ? 

Sir  John.  Why,  you're  now  independent.  Lady  Frank- 
lin seems  resolved  to  stay  in  town.  Surely  she  can't  mean 
to  take  her  money  out  of  the  family  by  some  foolish  incli- 
nation for  Mr.  Graves?  He  is  always  purring  and  whining 
about  the  house,  like  a  black  cat  in  the  megrims.  What 
think  you,  eh  ? 

Clara.  Sir,  it  was  of  myself — my  unhappy  self,  you  were 
speaking. 

Sir  John.   Sly! True;    true!     What  I   meant   to   say 

was  this; — Lady  Franklin  persists  in  staying  here:  you  are 
your  own  mistress.  Mrs.  Carlton,  aunt  to  my  late  wife,  is 
going  abroad  for  a  short  time,  and  would  be  delighted  if 
you  would  accompany  her. 

Clara.  It  is  the  very  favor  I  would  have  asked  of  you. 
[Aside.']  I  shall  escape  at  least  the  struggle  and  the  shame. 
When  does  she  go  ? 

Sir  John.  In  five  days — next  Monday. ^ — You  forgive  me? 

Clara.  Sir,  I  thank  you. 

Sir  John  [draiving  the  tabW].  Suppose,  then,  you  write  a 
line  to  her  yourself  and  settle  it  at  once  ? 


SCENE  iij  MONEY  '  143 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  The  carriage,  Sir  John;  Miss  Yesey  is  quite 
ready. 

Sir  John.  Wait  a  moment.  Shall  I  tell  Evelyn  you 
wrote  the  letter  ? 

Clara.  No,  sir,  I  implore  you. 

Sir  John.  But  it  would  be  awkward  for  Georgy,  if  dis- 
covered. 

Clara.  It  never  shall  be. 

Sir  John.  Well,  well,  as  you  please.  I  know  nothing 
could  be  so  painful  to  a  young  lady  of  pride  and  deli- 
cacy.  James,   if  Mr.    Serious,  the  clergyman,  calls,  say 

I'm  gone  to  the  great  meeting  at  Exeter  Hall:  if  Lord 
Spruce  calls,  say  you  believe  I'm  gone  to  the  rehearsal  of 
Cinderella.  Oh !  and  if  MacFinch  should  come — (MoicFinch, 
who  duns  me  three  times  a  week) — say  I've  hurried  off  to 
Garraway's  to  bid  for  the  great  Bulstrode  estate.  Just  put 
the  Duke  of  Lofty's  card  carelessly  on  the  hall  table.  And 
I  say,  James,  I  expect  two  gentlemen  a  little  before  dinner 
— Mr.  Squab  the  Radical,  and  Mr.  Qualm  of  the  great 
Marylebone  Conservative  Association.  Show  Squab  into 
the  study,  and  be  sure  to  give  him  the  "Weekly  True 
Sun." — Qualm  into  the  back  parlor,  with  the  "Times"  and 
the  "Morning  Post."  One  must  have  a  little  management 
in  this  world.     All  humbug! — all  humbug,  upon  my  soul! 

[Exit. 

Clara  [folding  the  letter'].  There — it  is  decided!  A  few 
days,  and  we  are  parted  forever! — a  few  weeks,  and  another 
will  bear  his  name — his  wife!  Oh,  happy  fate!  She  will 
tave  the  right  to  say  to  him — though  the  whole  world  should 
hear  her — "I  am  thine!"  And  I  imbitter  their  lot — I  am 
the  cloud  upon  their  joyous  sunshine!     And  yet,  O  Alfred! 


IW  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  in 

if  she  loves  thee — if  she  knows  thee — if  she  values  thee — 
and,  when  thou  wrong 'st  her,  if  she  can  forgive,  as  1  do — I 
can  bless  her  when  far  away,  and  join  her  name  in  my  prayer 
for  thee! 

Eve.  [without].  Miss  Vesey  Just  gone?  Well,  I  will  write 
a  line. 

SCENE   III. 
Evelyn  and  Clara. 

Eve.  [aside].  So — Clara!  Do  not  let  me  disturb  you,  Miss 
Douglas. 

Clara  [going].  Nay,  I  have  done. 

Eve.  I  see  that  my  presence  is  always  odious  to  you,  it  is 
a  reason  why  I  come  so  seldom.  But  be  cheered,  madam: 
I  am  here  but  to  fix  the  day  of  my  marriage,  and  I  shall 

then  go  into  the  country — till — till In  short,  this  is  the 

last  time  my  visit  will  banish  you  from  the  room  I  enter. 

GJara  [aside].  The  last  time! — and  we  shall  then  meet  no 
more! — and  to  part  thus  forever — in  scorn — in  anger — I  can- 
not bear  it!  [Approaching  him.]  Alfred,  my  cousin,  it  is 
true  this  may  be  the  last  time  we  shall  meet — I  have  made 
my  arrangements  to  quit  England. 

Eve.  To  quit  England  ? 

Clara.  But  before  I  go  let  me  thank  you  for  many  a  past 
kindness,  which  it  is  not  for  an  orphan  easily  to  forget. 

Eve.  [mechanically].  To  quit  England! 

Clara.  I  have  long  wished  it;  but  enough  of  me. Eve- 
lyn, now  that  you  are  betrothed  to  another — now,  without 
recurring  to  the  past — now,  without  the  fear  of  mutual  error 
and  mistake — something  of  our  old  friendship  may  at  least 


SCENE  III]  MONEY  l-i5 

return  to  us. And  if,  too,  I  dared,  I  have  that  on  my 

mind  which  only  a  friend — a  sister — might  presume  to  say 
to  you. 

Eve.  [moved].  Miss  Douglas — Clara — if  there  is  aught  that 
I  could  do — if,  while  hundreds — strangers — beggars  tell  me 
that  I  have  the  power,  by  opening  or  shutting  this  worthless 
hand,  to  bid  sorrow  rejoice,  or  poverty  despair — if — if  my 
life — my  heart's  blood — could  render  to  you  one  such  ser- 
vice as  my  gold  can  give  to  others — why,  speak! — and 
the  past  you  allude  to — yes,  even  that  bitter  past — I  will 
cancel  and  forget. 

Clara  [holding  out  her  hand].  We  are  friends,  then!  you 
are  again  my  cousin!  my  brother? 

Eve.  [dropping  her  ] band].  Brother!     Ah!  say  on! 

Clara.  I  speak,  then,  as  a  sister — herself  weak,  inexperi- 
enced, ignorant,  nothing — might  speak  to  a  brother,  in  whose 
career  she  felt  the  ambition  of  a  man.  Oh,  Evelyn,  when 
you  inherited  this  vast  wealth  I  pleased  myself  with  imag- 
ining how  you  would  wield  the  power  delegated  to  your 
hands.  I  knew  your  benevolence — your  intellect — your 
genius! — the  ardent  mind  couched  beneath  the  cold  sarcasm 
of  a  long-baffled  spirit!  I  saw  before  me  the  noble  and 
bright  career  open  to  you  at  last — and  I  often  thought  that, 
in  after-years,  when  far  away — as  I  soon  shall  be — ■!  should 
hear  your  name  identified,  not  with  what  fortune  can  give 
the  base,  but  with  deeds  and  ends  to  which,  for  the  great, 
fortune  is  but  the  instrument; — I  often  thought  that  I  should 
say  to  my  own  heart — weeping  proud  and  delicious  tears — • 
"And  once  this  man  loved  me!" 

Eve.  No  more,  Clara! — oh,  Heavens! — no  more! 

Clara.  But /tas  it  been  so? — have  you  been  true  to  your 

own    self  ? Pomp — parade — luxuries — pleasures — follies! 

Bulwer,  Vol.  XXX  *G 


146  BULWERS    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  hi 

— all  these  might  distinguish  others — they  do  but  belie  the 

ambition  and  the  soul  of  Alfred  Evelyn! Oh!  pardon  me 

— I  am  too  bold — I  pain — I  offend  you. Ah,  I  should 

not  have  dared  thus  much  had  I  not  thought  at  times,  that 
—that 

Eve.  That  these  follies — these  vanities — this  dalliance  with 
a  loftier  fate  were  your  own  work!  You  thought  that,  and 
you  were  right!  Perhaps,  indeed,  after  a  youth  steeped  to 
the  lips  in  the  hyssop  and  gall  of  penury — perhaps  I  might 
have  wished  royally  to  know  the  full  value  of  that  dazzling 
and  starry  life  which,  from  the  last  step  in  the  ladder,  I  had 
seen  indignantly  and  from  afar.  But  a  month — a  week 
would  have  sufficed  for  that  experience.  Experience! — Oh! 
how  soon  we  learn  that  hearts  are  as  cold  and  souls  as  vile 
— no  matter  whether  the  sun  shine  on  the  noble  in  his 
palace,  or  the  rain  drench  the  rags  of  the  beggar  cowering 
at  the  porch.  The  extremes  of  life  differ  but  in  this: — 
Above,  Vice  smiles  and  revels — below.  Crime  frowns  and 
starves.  But  you — did  not  you  reject  me  because  I  was 
poor?  Despise  me  if  you  please! — my  revenge  might  be 
unworthy — I  wished  to  show  you  the  luxuries,  the  gaud, 
the  splendor  I  thought  you  prized, — to  surround  with  the 
attributes  your  sex  seems  most  to  value  the  station  that, 
had  you  loved  me,  it  would  have  been  yours  to  command. 
But  vain — vain  alike  my  poverty  and  my  wealth!  You 
loved  me  not  in  either,  and  my  fate  is  sealed. 

Clara.  A  happy  fate,  Evelyn! — you  love! 

Eve.  And  at  last  I  am  beloved.  \_Afier  a  pause^  and  turn- 
ing to  her  abruptly.]  Do  you  doubt  it? 

Clara.  No,  I  believe  it  firmly! — \_Aside.']  Were  it  possible 
for  her  not  to  love  him  ? 

Eve.  Georgiua,  perhaps,  is  vain — and  light — and 


SCENE  III]  MONEY  l-iT" 

Clara.  No — think  it  not!  Once  removed  from  the  worldly 
atmosphere  of  her  father's  counsels,  and  you  will  form  and 
raise  her  to  your  own  level.  She  is  so  young  yet — she  has 
beauty,  cheerfulness,  and  temper, — the  rest  you  will  give, 
if  you  will  but  yet  do  justice  to  your  own  nature.  And, 
now  that  there  is  nothing  unkind  between  us — not  even 
regret — and  surely  \with  a  smile]  not  revenge,  my  cousin, 
you  will  rise  to  your  nobler  self — and  so,  farewell! 

Eve.  No;  stay,  one  moment; — you  will  feel  interest  in 
my  fate!  Have  I  been  deceived?  Oh,  why — why  did  you 
spurn  the  heart  whose  offerings  were  lavished  at  3'our  feet? 

Could  you  still — still ?     Distraction— I  know  not  what  I 

say; — my  honor  pledged  to  another — my  vows  accepted  and 
returned!  Go,  Clara,  it  is  best  so!  Yet  you  will  miss  some 
one,  perhaps,  more  than  me — some  one  to  whose  follies  you 
have  been  more  indulgent — some  one  to  whom  you  would 
permit  a  yet  tenderer  name  than  that  of  brother! 

Clara  \aside'\.  It  will  make  him,  perhaps,  happier  to  think 
iv! — Think  so,  if  you  will! — but  part  friends. 

Eve.  Friends — and  that  is  all!  Look  you,  this  is  life! 
The  eyes  that  charmed  away  every  sorrow — the  hand  whose 
lightest  touch  thrilled  to  the  very  core — the  presence  that, 
like  moonlight,  shed  its  own  hallowing  beauty  over  the 
meanest  things;  a  little  while — a  year — a  month^a  day, 
and  we  smile  that  we  could  dream  so  idly.  All — all — the 
sweet  enchantment,  known  but  once,  never  to  return  again, 
vanished  from  the  world!  And  the  one  who  forgets  the 
soonest — the  one  who  robs  your  earth  forever  of  its  summer 
— comes  to  you  with  a  careless  lip,  and  says — "Let  us  part 
friends!" Go,  Clara, — go — and  be  happy  if  you  can! 

Clara    [weeping].    Cruel — cruel — to   the   last! Heaven 

forgive   you,  Alfred!  [Exit. 


148  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  m 

Eve.  Soft!  let  me  recall  her  words,  her  tones,  her  looks. 
• — Does  she  love  me?  She  defends  her  rival — she  did  not 
deny  it  when  I  charged  her  with  attachment  to  another; 
and  yet — and  yet — there  is  a  voice  at  my  heart  which  tells 

me  1  have  been  the  rash  slave  of  a  jealous  anger. But 

I  have  made  my  choice — I  must  abide  the  issue! 

Enter  Graves  iireceded  hy  Servant. 
Ser.  Lady  Franklin  is  dressing,  sir. 


SCENE    lY. 
Graves  and  Evelyn. 

Graves.  Well,  I'll  wait.  \_Exit  Servant.]  She  was  wor- 
thy to  have  known  the  lost  Maria!  So  considerate  to  ask 
me  hither — not  to  console  me,  that  is  impossible — but  to 
indulge  the  luxury  of  woe.     It  will  be  a  mournful  scene, 

\_Seeing  EvELYN.] — Is  that  you,  Evelyn? — I  have  just 

heard  that  the  borough  of  Groginhole  is  vacant  at  last. 
Why  not  stand  yourself? — with  your  property  you  might 
come  in  without  even  a  personal  canvass. 

Eve.  I,  who  despise  these  contests  for  the  color  of  a  straw 
— this  everlasting  litigation  of  Authority  versus  Man — I  to 
be  one  of  the  wranglers? — never! 

Graves.   You  are  quite  right  and  I  beg  your  pardon. 

Eve.    \(iside'\.    And   yet   Clara  spoke   of   ambition.      Sbe 

would  regret  me  if  I  could   be  distinguished. [Alotid.'] 

To  be  sure,  after  all.  Graves,  corrupt  as  mankind  are,  it 
is  our  duty  to  try  at  least  to  make  them  a  little  better. 
An  Englishman  owes  something  to  his  country. 


SCENE  IV]  MONEY  1^9 

Graves.  He  does,  indeed!  \counting  on  his  fingers].  East 
winds,  Fogs,  Rheumatism,  Pulmonary  Complaints,  and 
Taxes — [Evelyn  walks  about  in  disorder'].  You  seem  agi- 
tated— a  quarrel  with  your  intended?  Oh!  when  you've 
been  married  a  month,  you'll  not  know  what  to  do  with- 
out one! 

Eve.  You  are  a  pleasant  comforter. 

Graves.  Do  you  deserve  a  comforter?  One  morning  you 
tell  me  you  love  Clara,  or  at  least  detest  her,  which  is 
the  same  thing  (poor  Maria  often  said  she  detested  me) 
— and  that  very  afternoon  you  propose  to  Georgina! 

Eve.  Clara  will  easily  console  herself — thanks  to  Sir 
Frederick ! 

Graves.  He  is  young! 

Eve.   Good  looking! 

Graves.   A  coxcomb! 

Eve.  And  therefore  irresistible  I 

Graves.  Nevertheless,  Clara  has  had  the  bad  taste  to 
refuse  him.  I  have  it  from  Lady  Franklin,  to  whom 
he  confided  his  despair  in  re-arranging  his  neck-cloth! 

Eve.    My  dear  friend — is  it  possible? 

Graves.  But  what  then  ?  You  must  marry  Georgina, 
who,  to  believe  Lady  Franklin,  is  sincerely  attached  to 
— your  fortune.  Go  and  hang  yourself,  Evelyn;  you  have 
been  duped  by  them. 

Eve.  By  them — bah!  If  deceived,  I  have  been  my  own 
dupe.  Is  it  not  a  strange  thing  that  in  matters  of  reason — 
of  the  arithmetic  and  logic  of  life — we  are  sensible,  shrewd, 
prudent  men;  but  touch  our  hearts — move  our  passions — 
take  us  for  an  instant  from  the  hard  safety  of  worldly 
calculation — and  the  philosopher  is  duller  than  the  fool? 
Duped — if  I  thought  it! — 


150  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  hi 

Graves.  To  be  sure! — you  tried  Clara  in  your  poverty ; 
it  was  a  safe  experiment  to  try  Georgina  in  your  wealth. 

Eve.  Ha!  that  is  true — very  true.     Gro  on. 

Graves.  You'll  have  an  excellent  father-in-law.  Sir  John 
positively  weeps  when  he  talks  of  your  income! 

Eve.  Sir  John,  possibly — but  Georgina? 

Graves.  Plays  affection  to  you  in  the  afternoon,  after 
practicing  first  with  Frederick  in  the  morning. 

Eve.  On  your  life,  sir,  be  serious:  what  do  you  mean? 

Graves.  That  in  passing  this  way  I  see  her  very  often 
walking  in  the  square  with  Sir  Frederick, 

Eve.   Ha!  say  you  so? 

'Graves.  What  then?  Man  is  born  to  be  deceived.  You 
look  nervous — your  hand  trembles;  that  comes  of  gaming. 
They  say  at  the  clubs  that  you  play  deeply. 

Eve.  Ha!  ha!  Do  they  say  that? — a  few  hundreds  lost 
or  won — a  cheap  opiate — anything  that  can  lay  the  memory 
to  sleep.  The  poor  man  drinks,  and  the  rich  man  gambles 
— the  same  motive  to  both!  But  you  are  right — it  is  a  base 
resource — I  will  play  no  more. 

Graves.  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,  for  your  friend  Captain 
Smooth  has  ruined  half  the  young  heirs  in  London.  To 
play  with  him  is  to  advertise  yourself  a  bankrupt, ^ — Even 
Sir  John  is  alarmed.  I  met  him  just  now  in  Pall  Mall; 
he  made  me  stop,  and  implored  me  to  speak  to  you.  By 
the  bye,  I  forgot — do  you  bank  with  Flash,  Brisk,  Credit 
and  Co.? . 

Eve.  So,  Sir  John  is  alarmed? — [Aside.']  Gulled  by  this 
cogging  charlatan? — Ah!  I  may  beat  him  yet  at  his  own 

weapons! Humph!      Bank  with   Flash!      Why  do  you 

ask  me? 

Graves.   Because  Sir  John   has  just  heard  that  they  are 


SCENE  IV]  MONEY  lol 

in  a  verj  bad  way,  and  begs  you  to  withdraw  anything 
you  have  in  their  hands. 

Eve.  I'll  see  to  it.  So  Sir  John  is  alarmed  at  my 
gambling? 

Graves.  Terribly!  He  even  told  me  he  should  go  him- 
self to  the  club  this  evening,  to  watch  you. 

Eve.  To  watch  me ! — good — I  will  be  there. 

Graves.  But  you  will  promise  not  to  play? 

Eve.  Yes — to  play.     I  feel  it  is  impossible  to  give  it  up! 

Graves.  No — no!  'Sdeath,  man!  be  as  wretched  as  you 
please;  break  your  heart,  that's  nothing!  but  damme,  take 
care  of  your  pockets. 

Eve.  I  will  be  there — I  will  play  with  Captain  Smooth 
— I  will  lose  as  much  as  I  please — thousands — millions — 
billions;  and  if  he  presume  to  spy  on  my  losses,  hang  me 
if  I  don't  lose  Sir  John  himself  in  the  bargain!  [Going 
out  and  returning.']  I  am  so  absent?  What  was  the  bank 
you  mentioned?  Flash,  Brisk,  and  Credit?  Bless  me, 
how  unlucky!  and  it's  too  late  to  draw  out  to-day.  Tell 
Sir  John  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  him,  and  he'll  find 
me  at  the  club  any  time  before  daybreak,  hard  at  work 
with  my  friend  Smooth!  [Exit. 

Graves.  He's  certainly  crazy!  but  I  don't  wonder  at  it! 
What  the  approach  of  the  dog-days  is  to  the  canine  species 
the  approach  of  the  honeymoon  is  to  the  human  race. 

Enter  Servant. 

iSer.  Lady  Franklin's  compliments — she  will  see  you  in 
the  houdoir. 

Graves.  In  the  houdoir  1 — go,  go — I'll  come  directly. 

[Exit  Servant. 
My   heart    beats — it    must   be    for    grief.      Poor   Maria! 


152  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  hi 

[Searching  his  pockets  for  his  handher chief. '\  Not  a  white 
one! — ^just  my  luck:  I  call  on  a  lady  to  talk  of  the  dear 
departed,  and  I've  nothing  about  me  but  a  cursed  gaudy, 
flaunting,  red,  yellow,  and  blue  abomination  from  India, 
which  it's  even  indecent  for  a  disconsolate  widower  to 
exhibit.  Ah!  Fortune  never  ceases  to  torment  the  sus- 
ceptible.    The  houdoir  ! — ha  I  ha!  the  boudoir/  [Exit. 


SCENE  V. 

A  Boudoir  in  the  same  house. 

Lady  Frank.  I  take  so  much  compassion  on  this  poor 
man,  who  is  determined  to  make  himself  wretched,  that 
I  am  equally  determined  to  make  him  happy!  Well,  if  my 
scheme  does  but  succeed,  he  shall  laugh,  he  shall  sing,  he 
shall Mam! — here  he  comes! 

Enter  GRAVES. 

Graves  [sighing\.   Ah,  Lady  Franklin  1 

Lady  Frank,  [sighing'].  Ah,  Mr.  Graves!  [They  seat  them- 
selves.'] Pray  excuse  me  for  having  kept  you  so  long.  Is  it 
not  a  charming  day  ? 

Graves.  An  east  wind,  ma'am!  but  nothing  comes  amiss 
to  you! — 'tis  a  happy  disposition!  Poor  Maria!  she,  too, 
was  naturally  gay. 

J^ady  Frank.  Yes,  she  was  gay.  So  much  life,  and  a 
great  deal  of  spirit. 

Graves.  Spirit?  Yes!— nothing  could  master  it.  She 
loould  have  her  own  way!  Ah!  there  was  nobody  like 
her! 


SCENE  v]  MONEY  153 

Lady  Frank.  And  then,  when  her  spirit  was  up,  she 
looked  so  handsome!     Her  eyes  grew  so  brilliant! 

Graves.  Did  not  they? — Ah!  ah!  ha!  ha!  ha!  And  do 
you  remember  her  pretty  trick  of  stamping  her  foot? — 
the  tiniest  little  foot — I  think  1  see  her  now.  Ah!  this 
conversation  is  very  soothing! 

Lady  Frank.  How  well  she  acted  in  your  private 
theatricals! 

Graves.  You  remember  her  Mrs.  Oakley,  in  "The  Jeal- 
ous Wife"?     Ha!  ha!  how  good  it  was! — ha!  ha! 

Lady  Frank.  Ha!  ha!  Yes,  in  the  very  first  scene,  when 
she  came  out  with  \inimiching\  "Your  unkindness  and  bar- 
barity will  be  the  death  of  me!" 

Graves.  No — no!  that's  not  it!  more  energy.  [^Mimick- 
ing.^ "Your  unkindness  and  barbarity  will  be  the  death 
of  me,"  Ha!  ha!  I  ought  to  know  how  she  said  it,  for 
she  used  to  practice  it  on  me  twice  a  day.  Ah!  poor  dear 
lamb !     [  Wipes  his  eyes.] 

Lady  Frank.  And  then  she  sang  so  well!  was  such  a 
composer!  What  was  that  little  French  air  she  was  so 
fond  of? 

Graves.  Ha!  ha!  sprightly?  was  it  not?  Let  me  see — 
let  me  see. 

Lady  Frank.  [Itumming].  Tum  ti — ti  tum — ti — ti — ti.  No, 
that's  not  it. 

Graves  [humming].  Tum  ti — ^ti — turn  ti — ti — tum — tum — 
tum. 

Both.   Tum  ti — ti — tum  ti — ti — tum — tum — tum.     Ha!  ha! 

Graves  [throwing  himself  back].  Ah!  what  recollections  it 
revives!     It  is  too  affecting. 

Lady  Frank.  It  is  affecting;  but  we  are  all  mortal, 
[Sighs.]     And  at  your  Christmas  party  at  Cyprus  Lodge, 


154:  BULWERS    DRAMATIC   WORKS  [act  hi 

do  you  remember  her  dancing  the  Scotch  reel  with  Captain 
Macnaughten  ? 

Graves.  Ha !  ha !  ha !     To  be  sure — to  be  sure. 

Lady  Franh.  Can  you  think  of  the  step  I — somehow  thus, 
was  it  not  ?     [Dancing.^ 

Graves.  No — no — quite  wrong! — just  stand  there.  Now 
then  [humming  the  tune']. — La — la-la-la. — La  la,  etc. 

[They  dance. 
That's  it — excellent — admirable  I 

Lady  Frank,  [aside].  Now  'tis  coming. 

Enter  SiR  JoHN,  Blount,  Georgina, — they  stand  amazed. 

[Lady  Franklin  continues  to  dance. 

Graves.  Bewitching — irresistible!     'Tis  Maria  herself  that 

I   see   before   me!     Thus — thus — let   me  clasp Oh,   the 

devil!    Just  like  my  luck! — [Stopping  opposite  SiR  John], 

[Lady  Franklin  runs  off. 

Sir  John.   Upon  my  word,  Mr.  Graves! 

Geor.^  Blount.  Encore — encore!  Bravo — bravo! 

Graves.  It's  all  a  mistake!  I — I — Sir  John.  Lady  Frank- 
lin, you  see — that  is  to  say — I Sainted  Maria!  you  are 

spared,  at  least,  this  affliction ! 

Geor.  Pray  go  on ! 

Blount.  Don't  let  us  interwupt  you. 

Graves.  Interrupt  me!  1  must  say  that  this  rudeness — 
this  gross  impropriety — to  pry  into  the  sorrows  of  a  poor 
bereaved  sufferer,  seeking  comfort  from  a  sympathizing 
friend — But  such  is  human  nature! 

Geor.  But,  Mr.  Graves! — [foUoiving  him]. 

Graves.  Heartless! 

Blount.  My  dear  Mr.  Graves! — [folloiving  him]. 

Graves.   Frivolous! 


SCENE  VI]  MONEY  155 

iSir  John.  Stay  and  dine! — \_folloiuing  him]. 
Graves.   Unfeeling ! 

Omnes.   Ha! ha! ha! 

Graves.   Monsters!     Good-day  to  you.' 

[Exit,  folloived  hy  SiR  JoHN,  etc. 


SCENE   VI. 

The  interior  of*  *  *'5  Club;  night;  lights.,  etc.  Small 
sofa-tables,  ivith  hooks,  ixvpers,  tea,  coffee,  etc.  Several  Mem- 
bers grouped  by  tlie  fireplace ;  one  Member  with  his  legs  over 
the  back  of  his  chair;  another  with  his  legs  over  his  table;  a 
third  witJi  his  legs  on  the  chimfiey -piece.  To  the  left,  ayid  in 
front  of  the  Stage,  an  old  Member  reading  the  newspaper,  seated 
by  a  small  round  table ;  to  the  right  a  card-table,  before  ivhich 
Captain  Dudley  Smooth  is  seated,  and  sipping  lemonade ; 
at  the  bottom  of  the  Stage  another  card-table. 

GrLOSSMORE  and  Stout. 

Gloss.  You  don't  come  often  to  the  club,  Stout? 

Stout.  No;  time  is  money.  An  hour  spent  at  a  club  is 
unproductive  capital. 

Old  Mem.  [reading  the  newspaper].  Waiter! — the  snuff- 
box. [Waiter  brings  it. 

Gloss.  So,  Evelyn  has  taken  to  play?  I  see  Deadly 
Smooth,  "hushed  in  grim  repose,  awaits  his  evening  prey." 
Deep  work  to-night,  I  suspect,  for  Smooth  is  drinking  lem- 
onade— keeps  his  head  clear — monstrous  clever  dog! 

1  For  the  original  idea  of  this  scene  the  author  is  indebted  to  a  Uttle 
proverbe,  never,  he  believes,  acted  in  public. 


156  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  in 

Enter  Evelyn;  salutes  and  shakes  hands  with  different 
members  in  passing  up  the  /Stage. 

How  d'ye  do,  Glossmore?  How  are  you,  Stout?  you 
don't  play,  1  think  ?  Political  economy  never  plays  at 
cards,  eh  ? — never  has  time  for  anything  more  frivolous  than 
Eents  and  Profits,  Wages  and  Labor,  High  Prices  and  Low 
— Corn-Laws,  Poor-Laws,  Tithes,  Currency — Dot-and-go-one 
— Rates,  Puzzles,  Taxes,  Eiddles,  and  Botheration !  Smooth 
is  the  man.  Aha,  Smooth.  Piquet,  eh?  You  owe  me  my 
revenge! 

[Members  touch  each    other    significantly ;    Stout  walks 
away  with  the  snuff-box ;  Old  Member  looks  at  him 
'  savagely. 
Smooth.  My  dear  Alfred,  anything  to  oblige. 

[They  seat  themselves. 
Old  Mem.   Waiter!  the  snuff-box. 
[Waiter  takes  it  from  Stout,  and  brings  it  back  to  Old 

Member. 

Enter  Blount. 

Blount.   So,  so!     Evelyn  at  it  again, — eh,  Grlossmore  ? 
.     Oloss.  Yes,  Smooth  sticks  to  him  like  a  leech.     Clever 
fellow,  that  Smooth! 

Blount.   Will  you  make  up  a  wubber? 

Gloss.  Have  you  got  two  others  ? 

Blount.  Yes;  Flat  and  Green. 

Gloss.  Bay  players. 

Blount.  I  make  it  a  wule  to  play  with  bad  players;  it  is 
five  per  cent  in  one's  favor.  I  hate  gambling.  But  a  quiet 
wubber,  if  one  is  the  best  player  out  of  four,  can't  do  one 
any  harm. 


SCENE  VI]  MONEY  lo7 

Gloss.  Clever  fellow,  that  Blount! 
[Blount  takes  up  the  snuff-box  and  walks  off  with  it; 
Old  Member  looks  at  him  savagely. 
[Blount,  Glossmore,  Flat,  and  Green  make  up  a 
table  at  the  bottom  of  the  Stage. 

Smooth.  A  thousand  pardons,  my  dear  Alfred, — ninety 
repique — ten  cards! — game! 

Eve.  [passing  a  note  to  him].  Game!  Before  we  go  on, 
one  question.  This  is  Thursday — how  much  do  you  calcu- 
late to  win  of  me  before  Tuesday  next? 

Smooth.    Ce  cher  Alfred !     He  is  so  droll! 

Eve.  [writing  in  his  pocket-book'].  Forty  games  a  night — 
four  nights,  minus  Sunday — our  usual  stakes — that  would 
be  right,  I  think! 

Smooth  [glancing  over  tJt,e  account].  Quite — if  1  win  all — 
which  is  next  to  impossible. 

Eve.  It  shall  be  possible  to  win  twice  as  much,  on  one 
condition.     Canyon  keep  a  secret? 

Smooth.  My  dear  Alfred,  1  have  kept  myself!  I  never 
inherited  a  farthing — I  never  spent  less  than  £4,000  a  year 
— and  I  never  told  a  soul  how  I  managed  it. 

Eve.   Hark  ye,  then— a  word  with  you — [they  lohisper]. 

Old  Mem.  "Waiter! — the  snuff-box! 

[Waiter  takes  it  from.  Blount,  etc. 

Enter  SiR  John. 

Eve.  You  understand  ? 

Smooth.   Perfectly;  anything  to  oblige. 

Eve.  [cutting].  It  is  for  you  to  deal.       [They  go  on  playing. 

Sir  Johii  [groaning].  There's  my  precious  son-in-law,  that 
is  to  be,  spending  my  consequence,  and  making  a  fool  of 
himself. 

[Takes  up  the  snuff-box  ;  Old  Member  looks  at  him  savagely. 


158  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ili 

Blount.  I'm  oat.  Flat,  a  poney  on  the  odd  twick. 
That's  wight. — \_Goming  up,  counting  his  money.}  Well,  Sir 
John,  you  don't  play! 

Sir  John.  Play?  no!     Confound  him — lost  again! 

Eve.  Hang  the  cards! — double  the  stakes! 

Smooth.  Just  as  you  please — done ! 

Sir  John.  Done,  indeed! 

Old  Mem.   Waiter! — the  snuff-box. 

[Waiter  takes  it  from  Sir  John. 

Blount.  I've  won  eight  points  and  the  bets — I  never  lose 
• — I  never  play  in  the  Deadly  Smooth  set! 

[Takes  up  the  snuff-hox  ;  Old  Member  as  before. 

Sir  John  [looking  over  Smooth's  hajid,  and  fidgetting  hack- 
ward  and  for  loard].  Lord,  have  mercy  on  us!  Smooth  has 
seven  for  his  point!     What's  the  stakes? 

Eve.  Don't  disturb  us — I  only  throw  out  four.  Stakes, 
Sir  John? — immense!  Was  ever  such  luck? — not  a  card 
for  my  point.  Do  stand  back,  Sir  John — I'm  getting  irri- 
table. 

Old  Mem.   Waiter!  the  snuflt'-box.      [Waiter  brings  it  back. 

Blount.   One  hundred  pounds  on  the  next  game,  Evelyn. 

Sir  John.  Nonsense — nonsense — don't  disturb  him!  All 
the  fishes  come  to  the  bait!  Sharks  and  minnows  all  nib- 
bling away  at  my  son-in-law! 

Eve.  One  hundred  pounds,  Blount?  Ah!  the  finest  gen- 
tleman is  never  too  fine  a  gentleman  to  pick  up  a  guinea. 
Done!     Treble  the  stakes.  Smooth ! 

Sir  John.  I'm  on  the  rack!  [seizing  the  snuff-box].  Be 
cool,  Evelyn!  take  care,  my  dear  boy!     Be  cool — be  cool. 

Eve.  What — what?  You  have  four  queens! — five  to  the 
king.  Confound  the  cards!  a  fresh  pack.  [Throws  the  cards 
behind  him  over  Sir  John.] 


SCENE  VI]  MONEY  159 

Old  Mem.  Waiter!  the  sQutf-box. 

[Different  members  gather  round. 

First  3Iem.  I  never  before  saw  Evelyn  out  of  temper. 
He  must  be  losing  immensely! 

Second  Mem.  Yes,  this  is  interesting! 

Sir  John.  Interesting!     There's  a  wretch! 

First  Mem.  Poor  fellow!  he'll  be  ruined  in  a  month. 

Sir  John.  I'm  in  a  cold  sweat. 

Second  Mem.   Smooth  is  the  very  devil. 

Sir  John.   The  devil's  a  joke  to  him! 

Gloss,  [slapping  SiK  John  on  the  hacJc].  A  clever  fellow 
that  Smooth,  Sir  John,  eh  ?  [Takes  up  the  snuff-hox.  Old 
Member  as  before.']     £100  on  this  game,  Evelyn  ? 

Eve.  [half-turning  round].  You!  well  done  the  Gonstit'i- 
tion!  yes,  £100! 

Old  Meryl.   Waiter! — the  snuff-box. 

Stout.  I  think  I'll  venture  £200  on  this  game,  Evelyn? 

Eve.  [quite  turning  round].  Ha!  ha!  ha! — Enlightenment 
and  the  Constitution  on  the  same  side  of  the  question  at 
last!  Oh,  Stout,  Stout!  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest 
number — greatest  number,  number  one!  Done,  Stout! — 
£200!  ha!  ha!  ha!— deal.  Smooth.  Well  done.  Political 
Economy — ha!  ha!  ha! 

Sir  John.  Quite  hysterical — drivelling!  Arn't you  ashamed 
of  yourselves  ?  His  own  cousins — all  in  a  conspiracy — a 
perfect  gang  of  them.  [Members  indignant. 

Stout  [to  Members].  Hush!  he's  to  marry  Sir  John's  daugh- 
ter. 

First  Mem.  What,  Stingy  Jacl<:'s?  oh!  ^ 

Chorus  of  Mems.  Oh!  oh! 

Old  Mem.  Waiter!  the  snuff-box. 

Eve.  [rising  in  great  agitation].  No  more,   no  more — I've 


160  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  hi 

done! — quite  enough.     Glossmore,   Stout,   Blount — I'll  pay 
you  to-moiTow.     I — I — Death! — this  is  ruinous! 

[/Seizes  the  snuff-box;  Old  Member  as  before. 

Sir  John.  Ruinous  f  I  dare  say  it  is.  What  has  he  lost  ? 
what  has  he  lost,  Smooth  ?     Not  much  ?  eh  ?  eh  ? 

\_Omnes  gather  round  SMOOTH. 

^/Smooth.  Oh,  a  trifle,  dear  John! — excuse  me!  we  never 
tell  our  winnings — [To  Blount.]  How  d'ye  do,  Fred  ? — [To 
Glossmore.]  By  the  bye,  Charles,  don't  you  want  to  sell 
your  house  in  Grosvenor  Square? — £12,000,  eh? 

Gloss.  Yes,  and  the  furniture  at  a  valuation.  About 
£3,000  more. 

Smooth  [loohing  over  his  pocket-hooJc].  Um! — Well,  we'll 
talk  of  it. 

Sir  John.  12  and  3 — £15,000.  What  a  cold-blooded  rascal 
it  is!— £15,000,  Smooth? 

Smooth.  Oh,  the  house  itself  is  a  trifle;  but  the  establish- 
ment— I'm  considering  whether  I  have  enough  to  keep  it 
up,  my  dear  John. 

Old  Mem.  Waiter,  the  snufl'-box!  [Scraping  it  round  and 
with  a  ivry  face'\ — And  it's  all  gone! 

[Gives  it  to  the  Waiter  to  fill. 

Sir  John  [turning  round'].  And  it's  all  gone! 

Eve.  [starting  up  and  laughing  hysterically].  Ha!  ha!  all 
gone?  not  a  bit  of  it.  Smootli,  this  club  is  so  noisy.  Sir 
John,  you  are  always  in  the  way.  Come  to  my  house! 
come!  Champagne  and  a  broiled  bone.  Nothing  venture, 
nothing  have!  The  luck  must  turn,  and  by  Jupiter  we'll 
make  a  night  of  it! 

Sir  John.  A  night  of  it!!!  For  Heaven's  sake,  Evelyn! 
Evelyn!! — think  what  you  are  about! — think  of  Georgina's 


SCENE  VI]  MONEY  161 

feelings!    think  of  your  poor   lost   mother! — think  of   the 
babes  unborn!    think  of 

Eve.  I'll  think  of  nothing!  Zounds!— jou  don't  know 
what  I  have  lost,  man;  it's  all  your  fault,  distracting  my 
attention.  Pshaw — pshaw!  Out  of  the  way,  do  I  Come, 
Smooth,     Ha!  ha!  a  night  of  it,  my  boy — a  night  of  it! 

[Exeunt  Smooth  and  Evelyn. 

Sir  John  [foUowing].  You  must  not,  you  shall  not! 
Evelyn,  my  dear  Evelyn!  he's  drunk, — he's  madi  Will 
no  one  send  for  the  police? 

Mems.  Ha!  ha!  ha!     Poor  old  Stingy  Jack! 

Old  Mem.  [rising  for  the  first  time,  and  in  a  great  rage]. 
Waiter! — the  snuff-box! 


162  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iv^ 


ACT   IV.— SCENE   I. 

The  Ante-room  in  Evelyn's  honse^  as  in  ^Scene  /.,  Act  11. 

Tabouret,  MacFinch,  Frantz,  and  other  Tradesmen. 

Tahon.  \ltalf  rvhisijers].  So,  I  hear  that  Mr.  Evelyn  has 
turned  gamester!  There  are  striange  reports  about  to-day 
• — 1  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it!  We  must  look  sharp, 
Mr.  MacFinch,  we  poor  tradesmen,  and  make  hay  while  the 
sun  shines. 

MacFinch.  I  wuish  those  geeming-houses  were  aw  at  the 
devil! — It's  a  cheam  and  a  sin  for  gentlemen  to  gang  and 
ruin  themselves,  when  we  honest  tradesmen  could  do  it  for 
them  with  sae  muckle  advantage  to  the  arts  and  commerce 
o'  the  country!  [^Omnes  shake  their  heads  approvingly. 

Enter  SMOOTH  from  the  inner  room^  loith  a  pocket-hooh  and 
pencil  in  his  hand. 

Smooth  [looking  round].  Hum!  ha!  Fine  pictures! — 
[Feeling  the  curtains.']  The  new-fashioned  velvet,  hum! 
good  proportioned  rooms!  Yes,  this  house  is  better  than 
Glossmore's!  Oh,  Mr.  Tabouret,  the  upholsterer!  you 
furnished  these   rooms?     All   of  the   best,    eh? 

Tahou.  Oh,  the  VERY  best.  Mr.  Evelyn  is  not  a  man 
to  grudge  expense,  sir. 


SCENE  il  MONEY  163 

/Smooth.  He  is  not,  indeed.  You've  been  paid,  I  suppose, 
Tabouret  ? 

Tahou.  No,  sir,  no — I  never  send  in  my  bills  when  a 
customer  is  rich.  \^Aslde.']  Bills  are  like  trees,  and  grow- 
by  standing. 

Smooth.  Humph!     Not  Paid?     Humph! 

\_Omnes  gather  round. 

MacFinch.  I  dinna  like  that  hoomph,  there's  something 
vara  suspeecious  abun'  it. 

Tahou.  \to  the  tradesmen].  It  is  the  great  card-player. 
Captain  Smooth — finest  player  in  Europe — cleaned  out  the 
Duke  of  Silly  vale.     Uncommonly  clever  man! 

/Smooth  [jpacing  about  the  rooni].  Thirty-six  feet  by 
twenty-eight — Urn!  I  think  a  bow-window  tliere  would 
be   an   improvement:    could   it   be   done  easily,    Tabouret? 

MacFinch.  If  Mr.  Evelyn  wants  to  pool  about  his 
house,    there's    no    men   like    vaj   friend    Mr.    MacStucco. 

Smooth.  Evelyn!  I  was  speaking  of  myself.  Mr.  Mac- 
Stucco  ? — humph ! 

Tahou.  Yourself?     Have  you  bought  the  house,  sir? 

Smooth.  Bought  it? — hum! — ha! — it  depends — So  you've 
not  been  paid  yet? — um!  Nor  you — nor  you — nor  you? 
Hum!    ha! 

Tahou.  No,  sir! — what  then?  No  fear  of  Mr.  Evelyn? 
Ha!  ha! 

Omnes  [anxiously^  Hal  ha! — what  then? 

MacFinch.  Ah,  sir,  what  then?  I'm  a  puir  mon  with  a 
family:  this  way.  Captain!  You've  a  leetle  account  in  the 
bulks;  an'  we'll  e'en  wipe  it  out  altogether,  gin  you'll  say 
what  you  mean  by  that  Hoom  ha! 

Smooth.  MacFinch,  my  dear  fellow,  don't  oblige  me  to 
cane  you;  I  would  not  have  Mr.  Evelyn  distressed  for  the 


164  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iv 

world.  Poor  fellow  I  he  holds  very  bad  cards.  So  you've 
not  been  paid  yet?  Don't  send  in  your  bills  on  any  ac- 
count— Mind  I  Yes;  I  don't  dislike  the  house  with  some 
alteration.     Good-day  to  you — Hum!  ha! 

[Exit^  looking  about  him^  examining  the  chairs,  tables,  etc. 
Tabou.    Plain  as  a  pikestaff!    staked  his  very  house  on 
an  odd  trick! 


SCENE   II. 

The  foregoing. — Enter  Shakp  from  the  inner  room,  agitated, 
and  in  a  hurry. 

Sharp.  O  Lord!  O  Lord; — who'd  have  thought  it? 
Cards  are  the  devil's  books!  John! — Thomas! — Harris! 
— \ringing  the  bell]. 

Enter  Two  Servants. 

Tom,  take  this  letter  to  Sir  John  Vesey's.  If  not  at  home, 
find  him — he  will  give  you  a  check.  Go  to  his  banker's, 
and  get  it  cashed  instantly.     Quick — quick!  off  with  you! 

Tabou.  [seizing  Servant].  What's  the  matter — what's  the 
matter?     How's  Mr.   Evelyn? 

Ser.  Bad — very  bad!  Sat  up  all  night  with  Captain 
Smooth!  [Buns  off. 

Sharp  [to  the  other  Servant].  Yes,  Harris,  your  poor 
master!  Oh  dear!  Oh  dear!  You  will  take  this  note  to  the 
Belgian  minister,  Portland  Place.  Passport  for  Ostend! 
Have  the  travelling  carriage  ready  at  a  moment's  notice! 

MacFinch  [stopping  Servant].  Passport!  Hark  ye,  my 
mon;  is  he  gaun  to  pit  the  saut  seas  between  ns  and 
the  siller? 


SCENE  II]  MONEY  165 

Ser.  Don't  stop  me — something  wrong  in  the  chest- 
change  of  air — late  hours — and  Captain  Smooth!        [Exit. 

Sharp  [lualkimg  aboiU].  And  if  the  bank  should  break! 
— if  the  bank  is  broke,  and  he  can't  draw  out! — bound 
to  Smooth! 

Tabou.  Bank! — what  bank? 

Sharp.  Flash's  bank!  Flash,  brother-in-law  to  Captain 
Smooth !     W  hat  have  you  heard  ? — eh  ? — eh  ? 

Tabou.   That  there's  an  awful  run  on  it! 

Sharp.  I  must  be  off.  Go — go — you  can't  see  Mr.  Evelyn 
to-day ! 

Tabou.  My  account,  sir! 

MacFinch.   I've  a  muckle  bairns  and  a  sma'  bill! 

Frantz.  O  sare,  de  great  gentlemen  always  tink  first  of 
de  tailor! 

Sharp.  Call  again — call  again  at  Christmas.  The  bank, 
■ — the  cards, — the  bank!     Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!  [Exit. 

Tabou.  The  bank! 

MacFinch.   The  passport! 

Frantz.  And  all  dat  vil  be  seen  of  de  great  Evelyn  coat 
is  de  back  of  it.  Donner  und  Hagel! — I  vil  arrest  him — I 
vil  put  de  salt  on  de  tail  of  it! 

Tabou.  [aside].  I'll  slip  down  to  the  city  and  see  how  the 
bank  goes! 

MacFinch  [aside\.  I'll  e'en  gang  to  my  coosin  the  la'yer. 
Nothing  but  peetience  for  us,  Mr.  Tabouret. 

Tahou.  Ay,  ay — stick  by  each  other — share  and  share 
alike — that's  my  way,  sir. 

Oranes.  Share  and  share  alike.  [Exeunt. 


166  BULWERS    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  IV 


SCENE   III. 
Enter  Servant,  Glossmore,  and  Blount. 

Ser.  My  master  is  not  very  well,  my  Lord!  but  I'll  let 
him  know.  [Exit. 

Gloss.  I  am  very  curious  to  learn  the  result  of  his  gam- 
bling tete-^-tete. 

Blount.  Oh,  he's  so  howwidly  wich,  he  can  afford  even 
a  t^te-a-t^te  with  Deadly  Smooth! 

Gloss.  Poor  old  Stingy  Jack*!  why  Georgina  was  i/our 
intended, 

Bloimt.  Yes;  and  I  really  liked  the  girl,  though  out  of 
pique  I  pwoposed  to  her  cousin.  But  what  can  a  man -do 
against  money? 

Enter  Evelyn. 

If  we  could  start  fair,  you'd  see  whom  Georgina  would 
pwefer:  but  she's  sacwificed  by  her  father!  She  as  much 
as  told  me  so! 

Eve.  So,  so,  gentlemen,  we've  a  little  account  to  settle — 
one  hundred  each. 

Both.  Don't  talk  of  it. 

Eve.  [jnitting  up  his  pocket-book}.  Well,  I'll  not  talk  of  it! 
• — [Taking  Blount  aside.}  Ha!  ha!  you'd  hardly  believe 
it — but  I'd  rather  not  pay  you  just  at  present:  my  money  is 
locked  up,  and  I  must  wait,  you  know,  for  the  Groginhole 
rents.  So,  instead  of  owing  you  one  hundred  pounds, 
suppose  I  owe  jon  five?  You  can  give  me  a  check  on  the 
other  four.     And,  harkye!  not  a  word  to  Glossmore. 


SCENE  III]  MONEY  167 

Blount.  Glossmore!  the  gweatest  gossip  in  London!  I 
shall  be  delighted! — [Aside.']  It  never  does  harm  to  lend 
to  a  rich  man;  one  gets  it  back  somehow.  By  the  way, 
Evelyn,  if  you  want  my  gway  cab-horse,  you  may  have 
him  for  two  hundwed  pounds,  and  that  will  make  seven. 

Eve.  [aside].  That's  the  fashionable  usury:  your  friend 
does  not  take  interest — he  sells  you  a  horse — [Aloud.] 
Blount,  it's  a  bargain. 

Blount  [loriting  the  chech.  and  musingly].  No;  I  don't  see 
what  harm  it  can  do  me;  that  off-leg  must  end  in  a  spavin. 

Eve.  [to  GtLOSSMORE].  That  hundred  pounds  I  owe  you 
is  rather  inconvenient  at  present;  I've  a  large  sum  to  make 
up  for  the  Groginhole  property — perhaps  you  would  lend 
me  five  or  six  hundred  more — just  to  go  on  with? 

Gloss.  Certainly!  Hopkins  is  dead:  your  interest  for 
Cipher  would 

Eve.  Why,  I  can't  promise  tltat  at  this  moment.  But  as 
a  slight  mark  of  friendship  and  gratitude,  I  shall  be  very 
much  flattered  if  you'll  accept  a  splendid  gray  cab-horse 
I  bought  to-day — cost  two  hundred  pounds! 

Gloss.  Bought  to-day! — then  I'm  safe.  My  dear  fellow, 
you're  always  so  princely! 

Eve.  Nonsense!  just  write  the  check;  and,  harkye,  not 
a  syllable  to  Blount! 

Gloss.  Blount!     He's  the  town  crier!  [Goes  to  write. 

Blount  [giving  EvELYN  the  check].  Wansom's,  Pall-mall 
East. 

Eve.   Thank  you.     So  you  proposed  to  Miss  Douglas! 

Blount.  Hang  it!  yes;  I  could  have  sworn  that  she  fan- 
cied me;  her  manner,  for  instance,  that  vewy  day  you 
pwoposed  for  Miss  Vesey,  otherwise  Georgina 

Eve.   Has  only  half  what  Miss  Douglas  has. 


168  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  it 

Blount.  You  forgot  how  much  Stingy  Jack  must  have 
saved!     But  I  beg  your  pardon. 

Eve.  Never  mind;  but  not  a  word  to  Sir  John,  or  he'll 
fancy  I'm  ruined. 

Gloss,  [giving  the  checJc],  Ransom's,  Pall-mall  East.  Tell 
me,  did  you  win  or  lose  last  night? 

Eve.  Win!  lose!  oh!  No  more  of  that,  if  you  love  me. 
I  must  send  oft"  at  once  to  the  banker's  [looJcing  at  the  two 
checks']. 

Oloss.  [ciside'].  Why!  he's  borrowed  from  Blount,  too! 

Blount.  \ciside'\.  That's  a  check  from  Lord  Glossmore! 

Eve.  Excuse  me;  I  must  dress;  I  have  not  a  moment 
to  lose.  You  remember  you  dine  with  me  to-day — seven 
o'clock.  You'll  meet  Smooth.  [TFt7^  tears  in  his  voice.'] 
It   may  be  the   last  time  I  shall   ever  welcome  you  here! 

My what  am  I  saying? — Oh,  merely  a  joke? — good-by 

— good-by. 

[iShaJcing  them  heartily  by  the  hand.     Exit  by  the  irmer 

door. 

Blount.  Grlossmore! 

Gloss.  Blount! 

Blount.  I'm  afraid  all's  not  wight! 

Gloss.  I  incline  to  your  opinion ! 

Blount.   But  I've  sold  my  gway  cab-horse. 

Gloss.  Grray  cab  horse!  you!  What  is  he  really  worth 
now? 

Blount.   Since  he  is  sold,  I  will  tell  you — Not  a  sixpence! 

Gloss.  Not  a  sixpence?  he  gave  it  to  me! 
[Evelyn  at  the  door  giving  directions   to  a  Servant  in 
dumb  show. 

Blount.  That  was  devilish  unhandsome!  Do  you  know, 
I  feel  nervous! 


SCENE  IV]  MONEY  169 

Gloss.  Nervous!     Let  us  run  and  stop  payment  of  our 
checks. 

[Evelyn  shuts  the  door^   and  Servant  runs  across  the 
stage. 
Blount.  Hollo,  John!  where  so  fast! 

Ser.  [in  great  haste].   Beg  pardon,  Sir  Frederick,  to  Pall- 
mall  East — Messrs.  Eansom.  [Exit. 
Blount  [solemnly].  Glossmore,  we  are  fwoored! 
Gloss.  Sir,  the  whole  town  shall  know  of  it.           [Bxeunt. 


SCENE  IV. 

Unter  ToKE  and  other  Servants. 

Toke.  Come,  come,  stir  yourselves!  we've  no  time  to  lose. 
This  room  is  to  be  got  ready  for  the  shawls.  Mrs.  Crump 
and  the  other  ladies  of  the  household  are  to  wait  here  on 
the  women  before  they  go  up  to  the  drawing-room.  Take 
away  that  desk:  don't  be  lazy!  and  give  me  the  newspaper. 
[Toke  seats  himself;  the  Servants  bustle  about. 

Strange  reports  about  my  patron !  and  the  walley  is  gone 
for  the  passport! 

Enter  FrANTZ  with  a  bundle. 

Frantz.  Mr.  Toke,  my  goot  Mr.  Toke,  I've  brought  you 
von  leetel  present. 

Toke.  John  and  Charles,  vanish!  [Exeunt  Servants. 

I  scorn  to  corrupt  them  'ere  working  classes! 

Frantz  [jproducing  a  pair  of  small-clothes  which  ToKE  tx- 
amines].  Your  master  is  von  beggar!  He  vants  to  run  avay ; 
ve  are  all  in  de  same  vat-you-call-it — de  same  leetel  nasty 
boat,  Mr.  Toke!  Just  let  my  friend  Mr.  Clutch  up  through 
Bulwer,  Vol.  XXX  *H 


170  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iv 

the  area.  I  vill  put  vat  you  call  un  execution  on  de  gutes 
and  de  catties  dis  very  tay. 

Toke.  I  accept  the  abridgements:  but  you've  forgotten 
to  line  the  pockets! 

Frantz.   Blesh  my  soul,  so  I  have!   [(jiving  a  note]. 

Toke.  The  area-gate  shall  be  left  undefended.  Do  it 
quietly,  no  claw.,  as  the  French  say. 

Frantz.  Goot  Mr.  Toke — to-morrow  I  vill  line  de  oter 
pocket.  \_Exit. 

Toke.    My  patron  does  not  give  me  satisfaction! 

Enter  Footman. 

Foot.  What  chandeliers  are  to  be  lighted,  Mr.  Toke? — 
it's  getting  late. 

Toke.  Don't  disturb  me — I'm  rum-mynating!  yes,  yes, 
there's  no  doubt  of  it!     Charles,  the  area-gate  is  open. 

Foot.  And  all  the  plate  in  the  pantry!     I'll  run  and — 

Toke.  Not  a  step!  leave  it  open. 

Foot.  But 

Toke  [luith  dignity].   'Tis  for  the  sake  of  wentilation! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE    V. 
A  splendid  saloon  in  Evelyn's  house. 

Evelyn  and  Graves. 

Graves.  You've  withdrawn  your  money  from  Flash  and 
Brisk  ? 
Eve.  No. 
Graves.  No! — then 


SCENE  V]  MONEY  171 

Enter  Sir  John,  Lady  Franklin,  and  Georgina. 

Sir  John.  You  got  the  check  for  £500  safely? — too 
happy  to 

Eve.  [interrupting  him'].  My  best  thanks! — my  warmest 
gratitude!  So  kind  in  you!  so  seasonable! — that  £500 — 
you  don't  know  the  value  of  that  £500.  I  shall  never 
forget  your  nobleness  of  conduct. 

Sir  John.  Gratitude! — Nobleness! — [Aside.']  I  can't  have 
been  taken  in? 

Eve.   And  in  a  moment  of  such  distress ! 

Sir  John  [aside].  Such  distress!  He  picks  out  the  ugliest 
words  in  the  whole  dictionary! 

Eve.  I've  done  with  Smooth.  But  I'm  still  a  little  crip- 
pled, and  you  must  do  me  another  favor.  I've  only  as  yet 
paid  the  deposit  of  ten  per  cent  for  the  great  Groginhole 
property.  1  am  to  pay  the  rest  this  week — nay,  I  fear 
to-morrow.  I've  already  sold  out  the  Funds!  the  money 
lies  at  the  banker's,  and  of  course  I  can't  touch  it;  for  if 
I  don't  pay  by  a  certain  day,  I  forfeit  the  estate  and  the 
deposit. 

Sir  John.  What's  coming  now,  I  wonder? 

Eve.  Georgina's  fortune  is  £10,000.  I  always  meant,  my 
dear  Sir  John,  to  present  you  with  that  little  sum. 

Sir  John.  Oh,  Evelyn!  your  generosity  is  positively 
touching  [wipes  his  eyes]. 

Eve.  But  the  news  of  my  losses  has  frightened  my 
tradesmen!     I  have  so  many  heavy  debts  at  this  moment 

that — that — that .     But  I  see  Georgina  is  listening,  and 

I'll  say  what  I  have  to  say  to  her. 

Sir  John.  No,  no — no,  no.  Girls  don't  understand  busi- 
ness! 

Eve.  The  very  reason  I  speak  to  her.     This  is  an  affair 


I'^S  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iv 

not  of  business,  but  oi  feeling.  Stout,  show  Sir  John  my 
Correggio. 

Sir  John-  [aside'].  Devil  take  his  Correggio!  The  man 
is  born  to  torment  me! 

Eve.  ]VIv  dear  Georgina,  whatever  3'ou  may  hear  said  of 
me,  I  flatter  myself  that  you  feel  confidence  in  my  honor. 

Geor.   Can  you  doubt  it? 

Eve.  I  confess  that  I  am  embarrassed  at  this  moment:  I 
have  been  weak  enough  to  lose  money  at  play;  and  there 
are  other  demands  on  me.  I  promise  you  never  to  gamble 
again  as  long  as  I  live.  My  affairs  can  be  retrieved;  but 
for  the  first  few  years  of  our  marriage  it  may  be  necessary 
to  retrench. 

Geor.  Retrench! 

Eve.   To  live,  perhaps,  altogether  in  the  country. 

Geor.   Altogether  in  the  country! 

Eve.   To  confine  ourselves  to  a  modest  competence. 

Gear.  Modest  competence!  I  knew  something  horrid  was 
coming! 

Eve.  And  now,  Georgina,  you  may  have  it  in  your  power 
at  this  moment  to  save  me  from  much  anxiety  and  humilia- 
tion. My  money  is  locked  up — my  debts  of  honor  must 
be  settled — you  are  of  age— your  £10,000  in  your  own 
liands 

Sir  John  [Stout  listening  as  icell  as  Sir  John].  I'm 
standing  on  hot  iron! 

Eve.  If  you  could  lend  it  to  me  for  a  few  weeks You 

hesitate!  oh!  believe  the  honor  of  the  man  you  will  call 
your  husband  before  all  the  calumnies  of  the  fools  whom 
we  call  the  world!  Can  you  give  me  this  proof  of  your 
confidence?  Remember,  without  confidence  what  is  wed- 
lock? 


SCENE  V]  MONEY  173 

Sir  John  [aside  to  her].  No!  [Aloud,  pointing  his  glass  at 
the  Correggio.]  Yes,  the  painting  may  be  fine. 

iStout.  But  you  don't  like  the  subject? 

Gear,  [aside'].  He  may  be  only  trying  me!  Best  leave 
it  to  papa. 

IJve.   Well 

Geor.  You — you  shall  hear  from  me  to-morrow. — [Aside.] 
Ah,  there's  that  dear  Sir  Frederick!  [Goes  to  Blount. 

Unter  Glossmore  a7id  Smooth;    Evelyn  salutes  them, 
paying  Smooth  servile  respect. 

Lady  Frank,  [to  Graves].  Ha!  ha!  To  be  so  disturbed 
yesterday, — was  it  not  droll? 

Graves.   Never  recur  to  that  humiliating  topic. 

Gloss,   [to  Stout].  See  how  Evelyn  fawns  upon  Smooth! 

IStout.  How  mean  in  h.ii\\\— Smooth — ^a  professional  gam- 
bler— a  fellow  who  lives  by  his  wits!  I  would  not  know 
such  a  man  on  any  account! 

Smooth  [to  Glossmore].  So  Hopkins  is  dead — you  want 
Cipher  to  come  in  for  Groginhole,  eh  ? 

Gloss.  What! — could  you  manage  it? 

Smooth.    Ce  cher  Charles  1 — anything  to  oblige ! 

Stoid.  Groginhole!  What  can  he  have  to  do  with  Grogin- 
hole ? — Glossmore,  present  me  to  Smooth. 

Gloss.  What!  the  gambler — the  fellow  who  lives  by  his 
wits  ? 

Stout.  Why,  his  wits  seem  to  be  an  uncommonly  produc- 
tive capital?  I'll  introduce  myself.  How  d'ye  do,  Captain 
Smooth?  We  have  met  at  the  club,  1  think — I  am  charmed 
to  make  your  acquaintance  in  private.  I  say,  sir,  what  do 
you  think  of  the  affairs  of  the  nation?  Bad!  very  bad! — no 
enlightenment! — great  fall  off   in  the  revenue! — no  knowl- 


174  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iv 

edge  of  finance!  There's  only  one  man  who  can  save  the 
country and  that's  Popkins! 

Smooth.  Is  he  in  Parliament,  Mr.  Stout?  What's  your 
Christian  name,  by  the  bye? 

.Stout.  Benjamin. — No;  constituencies  are  so  ignorant, 
they  don't  understand  his  value.  He's  no  orator;  in  fact, 
lie  stammers  so  much — but  devilish  profound.  Could  not 
we  insure  him  for  Groginhole? 

Smooth.   My  dear  Benjamin,  it  is  a  thing  to  be  thought  on. 

Eve.  [advancing].  My  friends,  pray  be  seated; — I  wish  to 
consult  yoLi.  This  day  twelve  months  I  succeeded  to  an 
immence  income,  and  as,  by  a  happy  coincidence,  on  the 
same  day  I  secured  your  esteem,  so  now  I  wish  to  ask 
you  if  you  think  I  could  have  spent  that  income  in  a 
way  more  worthy  your  good  opinion. 

Gloss.   Impossible!  excellent  taste — beautiful  house! 

Blount.  Vewy  good  horses — \_Aside  to  GtLOSSMORE]  espe- 
cially the  gway  cob! 

Lady  Frank.  Splendid  pictures! 

Graves.  And  a  magnificent  cook,  ma'am! 

Smooth  [thrusting  his  hands  into  his  i^ockets].  It  is  my 
opinion,  Alfred — and  I'm  a  judge — that  you  could  not 
have  spent  your  money  better! 

Omnes  [except  SiR  John].  Yery  true! 

Fve.  What  say  you.  Sir  John  ?  You  may  think  me  a 
little  extravagant;  but  you  know  that  in  this  world  the 
only  way  to  show  one's  self  thoroughly  respectable  is  to 
make  a  thoroughly  respectable  show. 

Sir  John.  Certainly — certainly!  No,  3^ou  could  not  have 
done  better.     [Aside.]  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it. 

Geor.  Oertainly. — [Coaxingly.]  Don't  retrench,  my  dear 
Alfred  I 


SCENE  v]  MONEY  175 

Gloss.  Retrench!  nothing  so  plebeian! 

Stout.  Plebeian,  sir! — worse  than  plebeian! — it  is  against 
all  the  rules  of  public  morality.  Every  one  knows,  nowa- 
days, that  extravagance  is  a  benefit  to  the  population — 
encourages  art — employs  labor — and  multiplies  spinning- 
jennies. 

Eve.  You  reassure  me!  I  own  I  did  think  that  a  man 
worthy  of  friends  so  sincere  might  have  done  something 
better  than  feast — dress — drink — play 

Gloss.  Nonsense! — we  like  you  the  better  for  it.  [Aside.'] 
I  wish  I  had  my  £600  back,  though. 

Eve.  And  you  are  as  much  my  friends  now  as  when  you 
oJSered  me  £10  for  my  old  nurse? 

Sir  John.   A  thousand  times  more  so,  my  dear  boy! 

[07nnes  approve. 

Enter  Sharp. 

Smooth.  But  who's  our  new  friend? 

Eve.  Who!  the  very  man  who  first  announced  to  me  the 
wealth  which  you  allow  I  have  spent  so  well.  But  what's 
the  matter.  Sharp? 

Sharp  [whispering  Evelyn]. 

Eve.  [aloud].  The  bank's  iro/fce/ 

Sir  John.   Broke! — what  bank? 

Eve.   Flash,  Brisk,  and  Co. 

Gloss,  [to  Smooth].  And  Flash  was  your  brother-in-law. 
I'm  very  sorry. 

Smooth  [taking  snuff].  Not  at  all,  Charles, — I  did  not 
bank  there. 

Sir  John.  But  I  warned  you — you  withdrew? 

Eve.  Alas!  no! 


176  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iv 

Sir  John.  Oh !     Not  much  in  their  hands  ? 

Sve.  Why,  1  told  you  the  purchase-money  for  Groginhole 

was  at  my  banker's but  no,  no;  don't  look  so  frightened! 

It  was  not  placed  with  Flash — it  is  at  Hoare's — it  is,  indeed. 
Nay,  I  assure  you  it  is.  A  mere  trifle  at  Flash's,  upon  my 
word,  now!  To-morrow,  Sharp,  we'll  talk  of  this!  One 
day  more — one  day,  at  least,  for  enjoyment. 

Sir  John.  Oh!  a  pretty  enjoyment! 

Blount.  And  he  borrowed  £700  of  me  I 

Gloss.  And  £600  of  me! 

Sir  John.  And  £500  of  me! 

Stout.  Oh!  a  regular  Jeremy  Diddler! 

Smooth  [to  Sir  John].  John,  do  you  know,  I  think  I 
would  take  a  handsome  offer  for  this  house  just  as  it 
stands — furniture,  plate,  pictures,  books,  bronzes,  and 
statues! 

Sir  John.   Powers  above! 

Stout  [to  Sir  John].  I  say,  you  have  placed  your  daugh- 
ter in  a  very  unsafe  investment.  What  then? — a  daughter's 
like  any  other  capital — transfer  the  stock  in  hand  to  t'other 
speculation. 

Sir  John  [going  to  Georgina].  Ha!  I'm  afraid  we've  been 
very  rude  to  Sir  Frederick.     A  monstrous  fine  young  man! 

Enter  ToKE. 

Tohe  [to  Evelyn].  Sir,  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  Mr.  Mac- 
Finch  insists  on  my  giving  you  this  letter  instantly. 

Eve.  [reading'].  How!  Sir  John,  this  fellow,  MacFinch, 
has  heard  of  my  misfortunes  and  insists  on  being  paid; — 
a  lawyer's  letter^quite  insolent! 

Tohe.  And,  sir,  Mr.  Tabouret  is  below,  and  declares  he 
will  not  stir  till  he's  paid. 


SCENE  v]  MONEY  177 

Eve.  Not  stir  till  he's  paid!  What's  to  be  done,  Sir 
John? — Smooth,  what  is  to  be  done? 

&nooth.  If  he'll  not  stir  till  he's  paid,  make  him  up  a 
bed,  and  I'll  take  him  in  the  inventory,  as  one  of  the 
fixtures,  Alfred! 

Eve.  It  is  very  well  for  you  to  joke,  Mr.  Smooth. 
Bat 

Enter  Sheriff's  Officer,  giving  a  paper  to  EvELYN,  and 

ivhispering. 

Eve.  What's  this?  Frantz,  the  tailor.  Why,  the  im- 
pudent scoundrel!  Faith,  this  is  more  than  I  bargained 
for — Sir  John,  the  bailiffs  are  in  the  house! 

tStont  [slapping  Sir  John  on  the  bach  ivith  glee].  The 
bailiffs  are  in  the  house,  old  gentleman!  But  I  didn't 
lend  him  a  farthing. 

Eve.  And  for  a  mere  song — £160!  Sir  John,  pay  this 
fellow,  will  you?  or  see  that  my  people  kick  out  the 
bailiff's,  or  do  it  yourself,  or  something, — while  we  go  to 
dinner! 

Sir  John.  Pay — kick — I'll  be  d d  if  I  do! — Oh,  my 

£500!  my  £500!     Mr.  Alfred  Evelyn,  I  want  my  £500! 

Graves.  I'm  going  to  do  a  very  silly  thing — I  shall  lose 
both  my  friend  and  my  money; — just  like  my  luck! — 
Evelyn,  go  to  dinner — I'll  settle  this  for  you. 

Lady  Frank.  1  love  you  for  that ! 

Graves.  Do  you?  then  I  am  the  happiest — Ah!  ma'am, 
I  don't  know  what  I  am  saying! 

[Exeunt  GRAVES  and  Officer. 

Eve.  [to  GeorginaJ.  Don't  go  by  these  appearances!  I 
repeat,  £10,000  will  more  than  cover  all  my  embarrass- 
ments.    I  shall  hear  from  you  to-morrow? 


178  BULWERS    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  IV 

Geor.  Yes — yes! 

Eve.  But  you're  not  going? — You,  too,  Glossmore? — ^you, 
Blount? — you,  Stout? — you,  Smooth? 

Smooth.  No;  I'll  stick  by  you  as  long  as  you've  a  guinea 
to  stake! 

Ghss.  Oh,  this  might  have  been  expected  from  a  man  of 
such  ambiguous  political  opinions  I 

Stout.  Don't  stop  me,  sir.  No  man  of  common  enlighten- 
ment would  have  squandered  his  substance  in  this  way. 
Pictures  and  statues? — baughl 

Eve.  Why,  you  all  said  I  could  not  spend  my  money 
better!  Ha!  hal  ha  I — the  absurdest  mistake! — you  don't 
fancy  I'm  going  to  prison? — Ha!  ha! — Why  don't  you 
laugh,  Sir  John? — Ha!    ha!   hal 

Sir  John.  Sir,  this  horrible  levity! — Take  Sir  Frederick's 
arm,  my  poor,  injured,  innocent  child! — ^Mr.  Evelyn,  after 
this  extraordinary  scene,  you  can't  be  surprised  that  I — I — 
Zounds!     I'm  suffocating! 

Smooth.  But,  my  dear  John,  it  is  for  us  at  least  to  put  an 
execution  on  the  dinner. 

Stout  \aside\.  The  election  at  Groginhole  ia  to-morrow. 
This  news  may  not  arrive  before  the  poll  closes — [Rushing 
to  Evelyn].  Sir  Popkins  never  bribes:  but  Popkins  will 
bet  you  £1,000  that  he  don't  come  in  for  Groginhole. 

Gloss.  This  is  infamous,  Mr.  Stout!  Cipher  is  a  man  who 
scorns  every  subterfuge! — [Aside  to  Evelyn].  But,  for  the 
sake  of  the  Constitution,  name  your  price. 

Eve.  I  know  the  services  of  Cipher — I  know  the  profun- 
dity of  Popkins:  but  it  is  too  late — the  borough's  engaged! 

Toke.  Dinner  is  served. 

Gloss,   [pausing'].  Dinner f 

Stout.  Dinner!  a  very  good  smell  I 


SCENE  vj  MONEY  179 

Eve.   [to  Sir  John].  Turtle  and  venison  too. 

[They  stop  irresolute. 

Eve.  That's  right — come  along.  But,  I  say,  Blount — 
Stout — Glossmore — Sir  John — one  word  first;  will  you  lend 
me  £10  for  my  old  nurse?  [They  all  fall  back. 

Ah!  you  fall  back. — Behold  a  lesson  for  all  who  build 
friendship  upon  their  fortune,  and  not  their  virtues! — You 
lent  me  hundreds  this  morning  to  squander  upon  pleasure — 
you  would  refuse  me  £10  now  to  bestow  upon  benevolence. 
Go — we  have  done  with  each  other — go! 

[Uxewit.  indignantly.,  all  hut  EvELYN  and  Smooth. 

Re-enter  Graves. 

Graves.   Heyday! — what's  all  this? 

Eve.  Ha!  ha! — the  scheme  prospers — the  duper  is  duped! 
Come,  my  friends — come:  when  the  standard  of  money  goes 
down,  in  the  great  battle  between  man  and  fate — why,  a 
bumper  to  the  brave. hearts  that  refuse  to  desert  us. 

[Exeunt. 


180  BULWER'S   DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 


ACT  Y.— SCENE  I. 

*  *  *  '5  Gluh  ;  Smooth,  Glossmore — other  Members. 

Gloss.   Will  his  horses  be  sold,  think  you? 

/Smooth.  Very  possibly,  Charles! — a  fine  stud — hum! — hal 
Waiter,  a  glass  of  sherry! 

Gloss.  They  say  he  must  go  abroad! 

Smooth.  Well;  'tis  the  best  time  of  year  for  travelling, 
Charles! 

Gloss.  We  are  all  to  be  paid  to-day;  and  that  looks 
suspicious! 

Smooth.    Very  suspicious,   Charles!     Hum  I — ah! 

Gloss.  My  dear  fellow,  you  must  know  the  rights  of  the 
matter:  I  wish  you'd  speak  out.  What  have  you  really 
won?     Is  the  house  itself  gone? 

Smooth.  The  house  itself  is  certainly  not  gone,  Charles, 
for  I  saw  it  exactly  in  the  same  place  this  morning  at  half- 
past  ten — it  has  not  moved  an  inch. 

[Waiter  gives  a  letter  to  Glossmore. 

Gloss,  [reading].  From  Groginhole — an  express!  What's 
this?  I'm  amazed!!!  [Reading.]  "They've  actually,  at  the 
eleventh  hour,  started  Mr.  Evelyn;  and  nobody  knows 
what  his  politics  are!  We  shall  be  beat/ — the  Constitu- 
tion is  gone! — Cipher!"     Oh!  this  is  infamous  in  Evelyn! 


SCENE  I]  MONEY  181 

Gets    into    Parliament   Just    to   keep    himself   out   of    the 
Bench. 

Smooth.  He's  capable  of  it. 

Gloss.  Not  a  doubt  of  it,  sir! — Not  a  doubt  of  it  I 

E7iter  Sir  John  and  Blount,  talking. 

Sir  John.  My  dear  boy,  I'm  not  flint!  I  am  but  a  man! 
If  Georgina  really  loves  you — and  1  am  sure  that  she  does — 
I  will  never  think  of  sacrificing  her  happiness  to  ambition 
— she  is  yours:  I  told  her  so  this  very  morning. 

Blount  [aside].   The  old  humbug! 

Sir  John.  She's  the  best  of  daughters! — the  most  obedi- 
ent, artless  creature!  Oh!  she's  been  properly  brought  up! 
a  good  daughter  makes  a  good  wife.  Dme  with  me  at 
seven,  and  we'll  talk  of  the  settlements. 

Blount.  Yes;  I  don't  care  for  fortune; — but 

Sir  John.  Her  £10,000  will  be  settled  on  herself — that 
of  course. 

Blount.  All  of  it,  sir?     Weally,  I 

Sir  John.  What  then^  my  dear  boy  ?  I  shall  leave  you 
both  all  I've  laid  by.  Ah!  you  know  I'm  a  close  fellowl 
•'Stingy  Jack,"  eh?     After  all,  worth  makes  the  man! 

Smooth.  And  the  more  a  man's  worth,  John,  the  worthier 
man  he  must  be.  [Exit. 

Blount  [aside'].  Yes,  he  has  no  other  child!  she  must  have 
all  his  savings;  I  don't  see  what  harm  it  could  do  me.  Still 
that  £10,000,-1  want  that  £10,000:  if  she  would  but  wun 
off  now,  one  could  get  wid  of  the  settlements. 

Enter   Stout    [wiping   his  forehead],  and   takes   Sir 
John    aside. 

Stout.  Sir  John,  we've  been  played  upon!     My  secretary 


182  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  V 

is  brother  to  Flash's  head  clerk,  Evelyn  had  not  £800 
in  the  bank!! 

Sir  John.  Bless  us  and  save  us!  you  take  away  my 
breath!  But  then — Deadly  Smooth — the  execution — the 
oh,   he  must  be  done  up! 

Stout.  As  to  Smooth,  he'd  "do  anything  to  oblige."  All 
a  trick,  depend  upon  it!  Smooth  has  already  deceived 
me,  for  before  the  day's  over,  Evelyn  will  be  member  for 
Groginhole  I've  had  an  express  from  Popkins;  he's  in 
despair!  not  for  himself — but  for  the  country.,  Sir  John — 
what's  to  become  of  the  country? 

Sir  John.   But  what  could  be  Evelyn's  object? 

Stout.  Object?  Do  you  look  for  an  object  in  a  whimsical 
creature  like  that? — a  man  who  has  not  even  any  political 
opinions!  .Object!  Perhaps  to  break  off  his  match  with 
your  daughter!  Take  care,  Sir  John,  or  the  borough  will 
be  lost  to  your  family! 

Sir  John.  Aha!  I  begin  to  smell  a  rat!  But  it  is  not  too 
late  yet. 

Stout.  My  interest  in  Popkins  made  me  run  to  Lord 
Spendquick,  the  late  proprietor  of  Groginhole.  I  told  him 
that  Evelj'n  could  not  pay  the  rest  of  the  money!  ami 
he  told  me  that 

Sir  John.   What? 

Stout.  Mr.  Sharp  had  just  paid  it  him;  there's  no  hope 
for  Poj)kins!     England  will  rue  this  day! 

Sir  John.  Oeorgina  %\L'd\\  lend  him  the  money!  Til  lend 
him — every  man  in  my  house  shall  lend  him — I  feel  again 
what  it  is  to  be  a  father-in-law! — \Asidei\  But  stop;  I'll 
be  cautious.  Stout  may  be  on  his  side — a  trap — not  likely; 
but  I'll  go  first  to  Spendquick  myself.  Sir  Frederick,  ex- 
cuse me — you  can't  dine  with  me  to-day.     And,  on  second 


SCENE  III  MONEY  183 

thoughts,  I  see  that  it  would  be  very  unhandsome  to  desert 
poor  Evelyn,  now  he's  down  in  the  world.  Can't  think  of 
it,  my  dear  boy — can't  think  of  it!  Yery  much  honored, 
and  happy  to  see  you  as  a  friend.  Waiter,  my  carriage! 
Um!  What,  humbug  Stingy  Jack,  will  they?  Ah  I  a 
good  joke,  indeed! 

Blount.  Mr.  Stout,  what  have  you  been  saying  to  Sir 
Joha?  Something  against  my  chawacter;  I  know  you 
have;  don't  deny  it.     Sir,  I  shall  expect  satisfaction. 

Stout.  Satisfaction,  Sir  Frederick?  as  if  a  man  of  enlight- 
enment had  any  satisfaction  in  fighting!  Did  not  mention 
your  name;  we  were  talking  of  Evelyn.  Only  think? — he's 
no  more  ruined  than  you  are. 

Blount.  Not  wuined!  Aha,  now  I  understand!  So,  sol 
Stay,  let  me  see — she's  to  meet  me  in  the  square! 

[Pulls  out  his  watch  /  a  very  small  one. 

Stout  \_pulling  out  his  oiun ;  a  very  large  one'].  I  must  be 
off  to  the  vestry. 

Blount.  Just  in  time! — ten  thousand  pounds!  'Gad,  my 
blood's  up,  and  I  won't  be  tweated  in  this  way,  if  he  were 
fifty  times  Stingy  Jack!  [^xit. 


SCENE   11. 
The  drawing-rooms  in  SiR  JoHN  Yesey's  house. 

Lady  Franklin,  Graves. 

Graves.  Well,  well,  I  am  certain  that  poor  Evelyn  loves 
Clara  still,  bat  you  can't  persuade  me  that  she  cares  for 
him. 

Lady  Frank.    She's  been  breaking   her  heart  ever  since 


184  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 

she  heard  of  his  distress.  Nay,  I  am  sure  she  would  give 
all  she  has,  could  it  save  him  from  the  consequences  of 
his  own  folly. 

Graves  \]ialf  aside].  She  would  only  give  him  his  own 
money,  if  she  did.     I  should  just  like  to  sound  her. 

Lady  Frank,  \ringing  the  helT\.  And  you  shall.  I  take  so 
much  interest  in  her,  that  I  forgive  your  friend  everything 
but  his  offer  to  Georgina. 

Enter  Servant. 

Where  are  the  young  ladies? 

Ser.  Miss  Vesey  is,  I  believe,  still  in  the  square:  Miss 
Douglas  is  just  come  in,  my  lady. 

Lady  Frank.  What!  did  she  go  out  with  Miss  Vesey? 

Ser.  No,  my  lady;  I  attended  her  to  Drummond's  the 
bankero  [Exit. 

Lady  Frank.   Drummond's! 

Enter  Clara. 

AVhy,  child,  what  on  earth  could  take  you  to  Drummond's 
at  this  hour  of  the  day  ? 

Clara  [confused'].   Oh,   I that  is — I — Ah,   Mr.   Graves! 

Bow  is  Mr.  Evelyn?  How  does  he  bear  up  against  so 
sudden  a  reverse? 

Graves.  With  an  awful  calm.  I  fear  all  is  not  right  here. 
[Touching  his  head.] — The  report  in  the  town  is,  that  he 
must  go  abroad  instantly — perhaps  to-day. 

Clara.  Abroad ! — to-day ! 

Graves.  But  all  his  creditors  will  be  paid;  and  he  only 
seems  anxious  to  know  if  Miss  Vesey  remains  true  in  his 
misfortunes. 

Clara.  Ah?  he  loves  her  so  much,  then) 


SCENE  II]  MONEY  185 

Graves.  Um! — That's  more  than  I  can  say. 

Clara.  She  told  me  last  night  that  he  said  to  the  last  that 
£10,000  would  free  him  from  all  his  liabilities — that  was  the 
sum,  was  it  not? 

Graves.  Yes ;  he  persists  in  the  same  assertion.  Will  Miss 
V^esey  lend  it? 

Lady  Frank,  [aside^  If  she  does,  I  shall  not  think  so  well 
of  her  poor  dear  mother;  for  I  am  sure  she'd  be  no  child  of 
Sir  John's! 

Graves.  1  should  like  to  convince  myself  that  my  poor 
friend  has  nothing  to  hope  from  a  woman's  generosity. 

Lady  Frank.  Civil!    And  are  men,  then,  less  covetous? 

Graves.  I  know  one  man,  at  least,  who,  rejected  in  his 
poverty  by  one  as  poor  as  himself,  no  sooner  came  into 
a  sudden  fortune  than  he  made  his  lawyer  invent  a  codicil 
which  the  testator  never  dreamt  of,  bequeathing  indepen- 
dence to  the  woman  who  had  scorned  him. 

Lady  Frank.   And  never  told  her? 

Graves.  Never!  There's  no  such  document  at  Doctor's 
Commons,  depend  on  it  I  You  seem  incredulous,  Miss 
Clara!     Good- day! 

Clara  [following  him].  One  word,  for  mercy's  sake!  Do 
I  understand  you  right?  Ah,  how  could  I  be  so  blind! 
Generous  Evelyn! 

Graves.  You  appreciate,  and  Georgina  will  desert  him. 
Miss  Douglas,  he  loves  you  still. — If  that's  not  just  like 
me!  Meddling  with  other  people's  affairs,  as  if  they  were 
worth  it — hang  them!  \Exit. 

Clara.  Georgina  will  desert  him.  Do  you  think  so? 
[Aside.]  Ah,  he  will  soon  discover  that  she  never  wrote 
that  letter! 

Lady  Frank.  She  told  me  last  night  that  she  would  never 


186  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 

see  him  again.  To  do  her  justice,  she's  less  interested  than 
her  father, — and  as  much  attached  as  she  can  be  to  another. 
Even  while  engaged  to  Evelyn,  she  has  met  Sir  Frederick 
every  day  in  the  square. 

Clara.  And  he  is  alone — sad — forsaken — ruined.  And 
I,  whom  he  enriched — I  the  creature  of  his  bounty — I,  once 
the  woman  of  his  love — I  stand  idly  here  to  content  myself 
with  tears  and  prayers!  Oh,  Lady  Franklin,  have  pity  on 
me — on  him!  We  are  both  of  kin  to  him — as  relations,  we 
have  both  a  right  to  comfort!     Let  us  go  to  him — come! 

Lady  Franh.  No!  it  would  scarcely  be  right — remember 
the  world — I  cannot! 

Clara.   All  abandon  him — then  1  will  go  alone! 

Lady  Franh.  You! — so  proud — so  sensitive! 

Clara.  Pride — when  he  wants  a  friend? 

Lady  Fraiik.  His  misfortunes  are  his  own  fault — a  gam- 
bler! 

Clara.  Can  you  think  of  his  faults  now?  /  have  no 
right  to  do  so.  All  I  have — all — his  gift! — and  I  never 
to  have  dreamed  it! 

Lady  Frank.  But  if  Georgina  do  indeed  release  him — 
if  she  have  already  done  so — what  will  he  think?  What 
but 

Clara.  What  but — thnt,  if  he  love  me  still,  I  may  have 
enough  for  both,  and  I  am  by  his  side!  But  that  is  too 
bright  a  dream.  He  told  me  I  might  call  him  brother! 
Where,    now,    should    a   sister   be?     But — but — I — I — I — 

tremble!     If,   after   all — if — if In   one    word,    am  1  too 

bold?  The  world— my  conscience  can  answer  that — but  do 
you  think  that  HE  could  despise  me? 

Lady  Frank.  No,  Clara,  no!  Your  fair  soul  is  too  trans- 
parent for  even  libertines  to  misconstrue.     Something  tells 


SCENE  III]                                         MONEY  187 

me   that   this   meeting  may   make  the  happiness  of    both! 

You  cannot  go  alone.     My  presence  justifies  all.  Grive  me 

your  hand — we  will  go  together!  [Exeunt. 


SCENE   III. 

A  room  in  Evelyn's  house. 

Eve.  Yes;  as  yet,  all  surpasses  my  expectations.  I  am 
sure  of  Smooth — I  have  managed  even  Sharp;  my  election 
will  seem  but  an  escape  from  a  prison.  Ha!  ha!  True,  it 
cannot  last  long;  but  a  few  hours  more  are  all  I  require, 
and  for  that  time  at  least  1  shall  hope  to  be  thoroughly 
ruined. 

Enter  Graves. 

Well,  Graves,  and  what  do  people  say  of  me? 

Graves.   Everything  that's  bad! 

Eve.  Three  days  ago  I  was  universally  respected.  I 
awake  this  morning  to  find  myself  singularly  infamous. 
Yet  I'm  the  same  man. 

Graves.   Umph! — why,  gambling 

Eve.  Cant  I  it  was  not  criminal  to  gamble — it  was  criminal 
to  lose.  Tut! — Will  you  deny  that  if  I  had  ruined  Smooth 
instead  of  myself,  every  hand  would  have  grasped  mine 
yet  more  cordially,  and  every  lip  would  have  smiled  con- 
gratulation on  my  success?  Man — Man!  I've  not  been 
rich  and  poor  for  nothing!  The  Vices  and  the  Virtues  are 
written  in  a  language  the  world  cannot  construe;  it  reads 
them  in  a  vile  translation,  and  the  translators  are — Failure 
and  Success!     You  alone  are  unchanged. 

Graves.  There's  no  merit  in  that.     I  am  always  ready  to 


188  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 

mingle  my  tears  with  any  man. — [Aside.]  1  know  I'm  a 
fool,  but  I  can't  help  it.  Hark  ye,  Evelyn!  I  like  you 
— I'm  rich;  and  anything  I  can  do  to  get  you  out  of  your 
hobble  will  give  me  an  excuse  to  grumble  for  the  rest  of 
my  life.     There,  now  'tis  out. 

Sve.  [touched].  There's  something  good  in  human  nature, 
after  all!  My  dear  friend,  I  will  now  confide  in  you:  I  am 
not  the  spendthrift  you  think  me — my  losses  have  been  tri- 
fling— not  a  month's  income  of  my  fortune.  [Graves  shakes 
him  heartily  hy  the  hand.]  No! — it  has  been  but  a  stratagem 
to  prove  if  the  love,  on  which  was  to  rest  the  happiness  of 
a  whole  life,  were  given  to  the  Money  or  the  Man.  Now 
you  guess  why  I  have  asked  from  Georgina  this  one  proof 
of  confidence  and  affection. — Think  you  she  will  give  it? 

Graves.   Would  you  break  your  heart  if  she  did  not? 

Eve.  It  is  in  vain  to  deny  that  I  still  love  Clara;  our 
last  conversation  renewed  feelings  which  would  task  all 
the  energies  of  my  soul  to  conquer.  What  then?  I  am 
not  one  of  those,  the  Sybarites  of  sentiment,  who  deem  it 
impossible  for  humanity  to  conquer  love — who  call  their 
own  weakness  the  voice  of  a  resistless  destiny.  Such  is 
the  poor  excuse  of  every  woman  who  yields  her  honor — 
of  every  adulterer  who  betrays  his  friend.  No!  the  heart 
was  given  to  the  soul  as  its  ally,  not  as  its  traitor. 

Graves.  What  do  you  tend  to? 

Eve.  This: — If  Georgina  still  adhere  to  my  fortunes  (and 
I  will  not  put  her  to  too  harsh  a  trial);  if  she  can  face 
the  prospect,  not  of  ruin  and  poverty,  but  of  a  moderate 
independence;  if,  in  one  word,  she  love  me  for  myself,  I 
will  shut  Clara  forever  from  my  thoughts.  I  am  pledged 
to  Georgina,  and  I  will  carry  to  the  altar  a  soul  resolute 
to  deserve  her  affection  and  fulfil  its  vows. 


SCENE  III]  MONEY  189 

Graves.   And  if  she  reject  3^011? 

Eve.  {^joyfully].  If  she  do,  I  am  free  once  more!  And 
then — then  I  wdll  dare  to  ask,  for  I  can  ask  without  dis- 
honor, if  Clara  can  explain  the  past  and  bless  the  future! 

Enter  Servant  ivith  a  letter. 

Eve.  [after  reading  W].  The  die  is  cast — the  dream  is  over! 
Generous  girl!     Oh,  Georgina!     I  will  deserve  you  yet. 

Graves.   Georgina!  is  it  possible? 

Eve.  And  the  delicacy,  the  womanhood,  the  exquisite 
grace  of  this!  How  we  misjudge  the  depth  of  the  human 
heart!  How,  seeing  the  straws  on  the  surface,  we  forget 
that  the  pearls  may  lie  hid  below!"  I  imagined  her  incapa- 
ble of  this  devotion. 

Graves.  And  1  too. 

Eve.  It  were  base  in  me  to  continue  this  trial  a  moment 
longer:  I  will  write  at  once  to  undeceive  that  generous 
heart  [writing']. 

Graves.  I  would  have  given  £1,000  if  that  little  jade 
Clara  had  been  beforehand.  But  just  like  my  luck:  if 
I  want  a  man  to  marry  one  woman,  he's  sure  to  marry 
another  on  purpose  to  vex  me.        [Evelyn  rings  the  hell. 

Enter  Servant. 

Eve.  Take  this  instantly  to  Miss  Vesey;  say  I  will  call 
in  an  hour.  [Exit  Servant.]  And  now  Clara  is  resigned 
forever!  Why  does  my  heart  sink  within  me?  Why, 
why,  looking  to  the  fate  to  come,  do  I  see  only  the 
memory  of  what  has  been? 

Graves.  You  are  re-engaged  then  to  Georgina? 

Eve.  Irrevocably. 

^  "Errors  like  straws,"  eic. 


190  BULWER"S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 


SCENE  rv. 

Enter  Servant,  mtnouncing  Lady  Franklin  and 
Miss  Douglas. 

Evelyn  and  Gkaves. 

Lady  Frank.  My  dear  Evelyn,  you  may  think  it  strange 
to  receive  sach  visitors  at  this  moment;  but,  indeed,  it  is 
no  time  for  ceremony.  We  are  your  relations — it  is  re- 
ported you  are  about  to  leave  the  country — we  come  to 
ask  frankly  what  we  can  do  to  serve  you? 

Eve.   Madam— I ■ 

Lady  Franh.  Come,  come — do  not  hesitate  to  confide  in 
us;  Clara  is  less  a  stranger  to  you  than  I  am:  your 
friend  here  will  perhaps  let  me  consult  with  him.  —  [Aside 
to  Graves.]     Let  us  leave  them  to  themselves. 

Graves.   You're  an  angel  of  a  widow;  but  you  come  too 
late,   as  whatever  is  good  for  anything  generally  does. 
[They  retire  into   the  inner  room,  luhich  should  he  iiar- 
tially  open. 

Eve.  Miss  Douglas,  I  may  well  want  words  to  thank 
you;  this  goodness — this  sympathy 

Clara  [abandoning  herself  to  her  emotion'].  Evelyn!  Eve- 
lyn! Do  not  talk  thus! — Goodness! — sympathy! — I  have 
learned  all — all!  It  is  for  ME  to  speak  of  gratitude!  What! 
even  when  I  had  so  wounded  you — when  you  believed  me 
mercenary  and  cold — when  you  thought  that  I  was  blind 


SCENE  IV]  MONEY  191 

and  base  enough  not  to  know  you  for  what  you  are;  even 
at  that  time  you  thought  but  of  my  happiness — my  fortunes 
— my  fate! — And  to  you — you — I  owe  all  that  has  raised 
the  poor  orphan  from  servitude  and  dependence!  While 
your  words  were  so  bitter,  your  deeds  so  gentle !  Oh,  noble 
Evelyn,  this  then  was  your  revenge! 

Uve.  You  owe  me  no  thanks — that  revenge  was  sweet! 
Think  you  it  was  nothing  to  feel  that  my  presence  haunted 
you,  though  you  knew  it  not  ? — that  in  things  the  pettiest 
as  the  greatest,  which  that  gold  could  buy — the  very  jew- 
els you  wore — the  very  robe  in  which,  to  other  eyes,  you 
might  seem  more  fair — in  all  in  which  you  took  the  wo- 
man's young  and  innocent  delight — /  had  a  part — a  share? 
that,  even  if  separated  forever — even  if  another's — even  in 
distant  years — perhaps  in  a  happy  home,  listening  to  sweet 
voices  that  might  call  you  ''Mother I" — even  then  should 
the  uses  of  that  dross  bring  to  your  lips  one  smile — that 
smile  was  mine — due  to  me — due,  as  a  sacred  debt,  to  the 
hand  that  you  rejected — to  the  love  that  you  despised! 

Clara.  Despised!  See  the  proof  that  I  despise  you! — 
see:  in  this  hour,  when  they  say  you  are  again  as  poor 
as  before,  I  forget  the  world — my  pride — perhaps  too  much 
my  sex:    I  remember  but  your  sorrows — 1  am  here! 

Eve.  [aside'].  Oh,  Heaven!  give  me  strength  to  bear  it! 
— [Aloud.]  And  is  this  the  same  voice  that,  when  1  knelt 
at  your  feet — when  I  asked  but  one  day  the  hope  to  call 
you  mine — spoke  only  of  poverty,  and  answered,  ^^ Never  ^1 

Clara.  Because  I  had  been  unworthy  of  your  love  if  I 
had  insured  your  misery.  Evelyn,  hear  me!  My  father, 
like  you,  was  poor — generous;  gifted,  like  you,  with  genius 
— ambition;  sensitive,  like  you,  to  the  least  breath  of  insult. 
He  married,  as  you  would  have  done — married  one  whose 


192  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  V 

only  dower  was  penury  and  care!  Alfred,  I  saw  that 
genius  the  curse  to  itself! — I  saw  that  ambition  wither  to 
despair! — I  saw  the  struggle — the  humiliation — the  proud 
man's  agony — the  bitter  life — the  early  death! — and  heard 
over  his  breathless  clay  my  mother's  groan  of  self-reproach! 
Alfred  Evelyn,  now  speak!  Was  the  woman  yoij  loved  so 
nobly  to  repay  you  with  such  a  doom  ? 

Eve.  Clara,  we  should  have  shared  it! 

Clara.  Shared?  Never  let  the  woman  who  really  loves, 
comfort  her  selfishness  with  such  delusion!  In  marriages 
like  this,  the  wife  cannot  share  the  burden;  it  is  he — the 
husband — to  provide,  to  scheme,  to  work,  to  endure — to 
grind  out  his  strong  heart  at  the  miserable  wheel!  The 
wife,  alas!  cannot  share  the  struggle — she  can  but  witness 
the  despair!     And  therefore,  Alfred,  I  rejected  you. 

Eve.   Yet  you  believe  me  as  poor  now  as  I  was  then. 

Clara.  But  /  am  not  poor:  we  are  not  so  poor.  Of  this 
fortune,  which  is  all  your  own — if,  as  I  hear,  one  half  would 
free  yon  from  your  debts,  why,  we  have  the  other  half  still 
left.     Evelyn!  it  is  humble — but  it  is  not  penury. 

Eve.  Cease,  cease — you  know  not  how  you  torture  me. 
Ob,  that  when  hope  was  possible; — oh,  that  you  had  bid 
me  take  it  to  my  breast  and  wait  for  a  brighter  day! 

Clara.  And  so  have  consumed  your  life  of  life  upon  a 
hope  perhaps  delayed  till  age — shut  you  from  a  happier 
choice,  from  fairer  fortunes — shackled  you  with  vows  that, 
as  my  youth  and  its  poor  attributes  decayed,  would  only 
have  irritated  and  galled — made  your  whole  existence  one 
long  suspense!     No,  Alfred,  even  yet  you  do  not  know  me. 

Eve.  Know  you!  Fair  angel,  too  excellent  for  man's 
harder  nature  to  understand! — at  least  it  is  permitted  me 
to  revere.     Why  were  such  blessed  words  not  vouchsafed 


SCENE  v]  MONEY  193 

to  me  before? — why,  why  come  they  now? — too  latel  Oh, 
Heaven — too  late! 

Clara.  Too  late!     What,  then,  have  I  said? 

Eve.  Wealth!  what  is  it  without  you?  With  you.,  I  recog- 
nize its  power ;  to  forestall  your  every  wish — to  smooth  your 
every  path — to  make  all  that  life  borrows  from  Grace  and 
Beauty  your  ministrant  and  handmaid;  and  then,  looking 
to  those  eyes,  to  read  there  the  treasures  of  a  heart  that  ex- 
celled all  that  kings  could  lavish ; — why  that  were  to  make 
gold  indeed  a  god !  But  vain — vain — vain !  Bound  by  every 
tie  of  faith,  gratitude,  loyalty,  and  honor,  to  another! 

Clara.  Another?  Is  she,  then,  true  to  your  reverses ?  1 
did  not  know  this — indeed  1  did  not!  And  I  have  thus  be- 
trayed myself?     O,  shame!  he  must  despise  me  now! 


SCENE   V. 

TJie  foregoing. — Enter  SiR  JoHN;  at  the  same  time  Graves 
and  Lady  Franklin  advance  from  the  inner  room. 

Sir  John  [with  dignity  and  frankness].  Evelyn,  I  was 
hasty  yesterday.  You  must  own  it  natural  that  I  should 
be  so.     But  Georgina  has  been  so  urgent  in  your  defence, 

that [as  Lady  Franklin  comes  ujo  to  listen]  Sister,  just 

shat  the  door,  will  you — • — that  I  cannot  resist  her.  What's 
money  without  happiness?  So  give  me  your  security;  for 
she  insists  on  lending  you  the  £10,000. 

Eve.  I  know,  and  have  already  received  it. 

Sir  John.  Already  received  it!     Is  he  joking?     Faith,  for 

the  last  two  days  I  believe  I  have  been  living  amongst  the 

Mysteries  of  Udolpho!     Sister,  have  you  seen  Georgina? 
Bulwer,  Vol.  XXX  *I 


194  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 

Lady  Frank.  Not  since  she  went  out  to  walk  in  the 
square. 

Sir  John  \aside\.  She's  not  in  the  square  nor  the  house — 
where  the  deuce  can  the  girl  be  ? 

Eve.  I  have  written  to  Miss  Vesey — I  have  asked  her  to 
fix  the  day  for  our  wedding. 

Sir  John  [Joyfully].  Have  you?  Go,  Lady  Franklin,  find 
her  instantly — she  must  be  back  by  this  time:  take  my 
carriage,  it  is  but  a  step — you  will  not  be  two  minutes 
gone. — [Aside.]  I'd  go  myself,  but  I'm  afraid  of  leaving 
him  a  moment  while  he's  in  such  excellent  dispositions. 

Lady  Frank,  [repulsing  Clara].  No,  no:  stay  till  I 
return.  [Exit. 

Sir  John.  And  don't  be  downhearted,  my  dear  fellow;  if 
the  worst  come  to  the  worst,  you  will  have  everythmg  I  can 
leave  you.     Meantime,  if  1  can  in  any  way  help  you 

Eve.  Ha! — you! — t/ow,  too? — Sir  John,  you  have  seen  my 
letter  to  Miss  Vesey? — [Aside] — or  could  she  have  learned 
the  truth  before  she  ventured  to  be  generous? 

Sir  John.  No!  on   my  honor.     I  only  just  called   at  the 

door  on  my  way  from  Lord  Spend that  is,  from  the  City. 

Georgina  was  out; — was  ever  anything  so  unlucky? — [With- 
out.]    [Hurrah — hurrah!     Blue  forever!]  —  What's  that? 

Enter  Sharp. 

Sharp.  Sir,  a  deputation  from  Groginhole — poll  closed  in 
the  first  hour — you  are  returned!     Holloa,  sir — holloa! 

Eve.   And  it  was  to  please  Clara! 

Sir  John.  Mr.  Sharp — Mr.  Sharp — I  say,  how  much  has 
Mr.  Evelyn  lost  by  Messrs.  Flash  and  Co.? 

Sharp.  Oh,  a  great  deal,  sir, — a  great  deal. 

Sir  John  [alarmed^^.   How? — a  great  deall 


SCENE  v]  MONEY  195 

Eve.  Speak  the  truth,  Sharp, — concealment  is  all  over. 

Sharp.  £223  6s.  ^d. — a  great  sum  to  throw  away! 

Graves.  Ah,  I  comprehend  now!  Poor  Evelyn  caught  in 
his  own  trap ! 

Sir  John.  Eh!  what,  my  dear  boy? — what?  Ha!  ha!  all 
humbug  was  it? — all  humbug,  upon  my  soul!  So,  Mr. 
Sharp,  isn't  he  ruined  after  all? — not  the  least,  wee,  ras- 
cally, little  bit  in  the  world,  ruined? 

Sharp.  Sir,  he  has  never  even  lived  up  to  his  income. 

Sir  John.  Worthy  man!  I  could  jump  up  to  the  ceiling! 
1  am  the  happiest  father-in-law  in  the  three  kingdoms. — 
And  that's  my  sister's  knock,  too. 

Clara.  Since  I  was  mistaken,  cousin, — since,  now,  you 
do  not  need  me, — forget  what  has  passed;  my  business  here 
is  over.     Farewell ! 

Eve.  Could  you  but  see  my  heart  at  this  moment,  with 
what  love,  what  veneration,  what  anguish  it  is  filled,  you 
would  know  how  little,  in  the  great  calamities  of  life,  for- 
tune is  really  worth.  And  must  we  part  now, — now,  when 
• — when 1  never  wept  before,  since  my  mother  died! 

Enter  Lady  Franklin  and  Georgina, /oZ^ow;ec?  hy  Blount, 
who  looks  shy  and  embarrassed. 

Graves.  Georgina  herself — then  there's  no  hope. 

Sir  John.  What  the  deuce  brings  that  fellow  Blount  here? 
— Georgy,  my  dear  Georgy,  I  want  to 

Eve.   Stand  back,  Sir  John! 

Sir  John.  But  1  must  speak  a  word  to  her  —  1  want 
to 

Eve.  Stand  back,  1  say, — not  a  whisper — not  a  sign.  If 
your  daughter  is  to  be  my  wife,  to  her  heart  only  will  I  look 
for  a  reply  to  mine. 


196  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 

Lady  Frank.  \to  GtEORgina].  Speak  the  truth,  niece. 

Eve.  Georgina,  it  is  true,  then,  that  you  trust  me  with 
your  confidence — your  fortune  ?  It  is  also  true,  that  when 
you  did  so  you  believed  me  ruined?  Oh,  pardon  the 
doubt!  Answer  as  if  your  father  stood  not  there — answer 
me  from  that  truth  the  world  cannot  yet  have  plucked  from 
your  soul — answer  as  if  the  woe  or  weal  of  a  life  trembled 
in  the  balance — answer  as  the  woman's  heart,  yet  virgin 
and  unpolluted,  should  answer  to  one  who  has  trusted  to 
it  his  all! 

Oeor.  What  can  he  mean? 

Sir  John  [making  signs].  She'll  not  look  this  way;  she 
will  not — hang  her — Hem! 

Eve.   You  falter,     I  implore — I  adjure  you — answer! 

Lady  Frank.   The  truth! 

Gear.  Mr,  Evelyn,  your  fortune  might  well  dazzle  me, 
as  it  dazzled  others.  Believe  me,  I  sincerely  pity  your 
reverses. 

Sir  John.  Good  girl!  you  hear  her,  Evelyn. 

Oeor.  What's  money  without  happiness? 

Sir  John.  Clever  creature! — my  own  sentiments! 

Oeor.  And  so,  as  our  engagement  is  now  annulled, — papa 
told  me  so  this  very  morning, — I  have  promised  my  hand 
where  I  have  given  my  heart — to  Sir  Frederick  Blount. 

Sir  John.  I  told  you, — I  ?  No  such  thing — no  such  thing: 
you  frighten  her  out  of  her  wits — she  don't  know  what  she's 
saying. 

Eve.  Am  I  awake?  But  this  letter — this  letter,  received 
to-day 

Lady  Frank,  [looking  over  the  letter'].  Drummond's — from 
a  banker! 

Eve.  Read — read. 


SCENE  V]  MONEY  197 

Lady  Frank.  "Ten  thousand  pounds  just  placed  to  your 
account — from  the  same  unknown  friend  to  Evelyn."  Oh, 
Clara,  I  know  now  why  you  went  to  Drummond's  this  morn- 
ing. 

Eve.  Clara!  What! — and  the  former  one  with  the  same 
signature,  on  the  faith  of  which  I  pledged  my  hand  and 
sacrificed  my  heart 

Lady  Frank.  Was  written  under  my  eyes,  and  the  secret 
kept  that 

Eve.  Look  up,  look  up,  Clara — I  am  free! — I  am  released! 
You  forgive  me  ? — you  love  me  ? — you  are  mine !  We  are 
rich — rich!  I  can  give  you  fortune,  power, — I  can  devote 
to  you  my  whole  life,  thought,  heart,  soul — I  am  all  yours, 
Clara — my  own — my  wife! 

Sir  John  [to  Georgina].  So,  you've  lost  the  game  by  a 
revoke,  in  trumping  your  own  father's  best  of  a  suit! — Un- 
natural jade! — Aha,  Lady  Franklin — I  am  to  thank  you  for 
this! 

Lady  Frank.  You've  to  thank  me  that  she's  not  now 
on  the  road  to  Scotland  with  Sir  Frederick.  I  chanced 
on  them  by  the  Park  just  in  time  to  dissuade  and  save 
her.  But,  to  do  her  justice,  a  hint  of  your  displeasure 
was   sufficient. 

Oeor.  [half- sobbing].  And  you  know,  papa,  you  said  this 
very  morning  that  poor  Frederick  had  been  very  ill-used 
and  you  would  settle  it  all  at  the  club. 

Blount.  Come,  Sir  John,  you  can  only  blame  yourself  and 
Evelyn's  cunning  device.  After  all,  I'm  no  such  vewy  bad 
match;  and  as  for  the  £10,000 

Eve.  I'll  double  it.  Ah,  Sir  John,  what's  money  without 
happiness  ? 

Sir  John.    Pshaw — nonsense — stuff!     Don't  humbug  me! 


198  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  V 

Lady  Frank.  But  if  you  don't  consent,  she'll  have  no 
husband  at  all. 

Sir  John.  Hum!  there's  something  in  that.  \_Aside  to 
Evelyn.]  Double  it,  will  you?  Then  settle  it  all  tightly 
on  her.  Well — well — ray  foible  is  not  avarice.  Blount, 
make  her  happy.  Child,  I  forgive  you. — [^Pinching  her 
arm.]  Ugh,  you  fool! 

Graves  [to  Lady  Franklin].  I'm  afraid  it's  catching. 
What  say  you?  I  feel  the  symptoms  of  matrimony  creep- 
ing all  over  me.     Shall  we,  eh  ?     Frankly,  now,  frankly 

Lady  Frank.  Frankly,  now,  there's  my  hand,  on  one  con- 
dition,— that  we  finish  our  reel  on  the  wedding-day. 

Graves.  Accepted.  Is  it  possible  ?  Sainted  Maria!  thank 
Heaven  you  are  spared  this  affliction! 

Enter  Smooth. 

Smooth.  How  d'ye  do,  Alfred?  I  intrude,  I  fear!  Quite 
a  family  party. 

Blount.  Wish  us  joy.  Smooth — Georgina's  mine,  and — 

Smooth.  And  our  four  friends  there  apparently  have  made 
up  another  rubber.  John,  my  dear  boy,  you  look  as  if  you 
had  something  at  stake  on  the  odd  trick. 

Sir  John.  Sir,  your  very Confound   the  fellow! — and 

he's  a  dead  shot,  too! 

Enter  Stout  and  Glossmore  hastily .,  talking  with 
each  other. 

Stout.  I'm  sure  he's  of  our  side;  we've  all  the  mtelli- 
gence. 

Oloss.  I'm  sure  he's  of  ours  if  his  fortune  is  safe,  for 
we've  all  the  property. — My  dear  Evelyn,  you  were  out  of 
humor  yesterday — but  I  forgive  you. 


SCENE  V]  MONEY  199 

Stout.  Certainly! — what  would  become  of  public  life  if  man 
were  obliged  to  be  two  days  running  in  the  same  mind? — I 
rise  to  explain. — Just  heard  of  your  return,  Evelyn.  Con- 
gratulate you.  The  great  motion  of  the  session  is  fixed 
for  Friday.  We  count  on  your  vote.  Progress  with  the 
times ! 

Oloss.  Preserve  the  Constitution! 

Stout.  Your  money  will  do  wonders  for  the  party! — Ad- 
vance! 

Oloss.  The  party  respects  men  of  your  property! — Stick 
fast! 

Eve.  I  have  the  greatest  respect,  I  assure  you,  for  the 
worthy  and  intelligent  flies  upon  both  sides  the  wheel ; 
but  whether  we  go  too  fast  or  too  slow,  does  not,  I 
fancy,  depend  so  much  on  the  flies  as  on  the  Stout  Gen- 
tleman who  sits  inside  and  pays  the  post-boys.  Now 
all  my  politics  as  yet  is  to  consider  what's  best  for  the 
Stout  Gentleman! 

Smooth.  Meaning  John  Bull.      Ce  cher  old  Johnl 

Stout.  I'm  as  wise  as  I  was  before. 

Gloss.  Sir,  he's  a  trimmer! 

Eve.  Smooth,  we. have  yet  to  settle  our  first  piquet  account 
and  our  last!  And  I  sincerely  thank  you  for  the  service 
you  have  rendered  to  me,  and  the  lesson  you  have  given 
these  gentlemen. — [Turning  to  Clara.]  Ah,  Clara,  you — 
you  have  succeeded  where  wealth  had  failed!  You  have 
reconciled  me  to  the  world  and  to  mankind.  My  friends — 
we  must  confess  it — amid  the  humors  and  the  follies,  the 
vanities,  deceits,  and  vices  that  play  their  parts  in  the  great 
Comedy  of  Life — it  is  our  own  fault  if  we  do  not  find  such 
natures,  though  rare  and  few,  as  redeem  the  rest,  brighten- 
ing the  shadows  that  are  flung  from  the  form  and  body  of 


200  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 

the  TIME  with  glimpses  of  the  everlasting  holiness  of  truth 
and  love. 

Graves.  But  for  the  truth  and  the  love,  when  found,  to 
make  us  tolerably  happy,  we  should  not  be  without 

Lady  Frank.  Good  health; 

Graves.  Good  spirits; 

Clara.  A  good  heart; 

Smooth.  An  innocent  rubber; 

Gear.   Congenial  tempers; 

BlovMt.  A  pwoper  degwee  of  pwudence; 

Stout.  Enlightened  opinions; 

Gloss.  Constitutional  principles; 

Sir  John.  Knowledge  of  the  world; 

Eve.  And plenty  of  Money! 


THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR 


201 


TO  ALL  FRIENDS  AND  KINSFOLK 

IN 

THE  AMERICAN   COMMONWEALTH 

THIS   DRAMA   IS   DEDICATED 
WITH  AFFECTION   AND   RESPECT 

London,  Sept.  28,  1868 


202 


PREFACE 

Many  years  ago  this  Drama  was  rewritten  from  an 
earlier  play  by  the  same  Author  called  "The  Sea  Cap- 
tain," the  first  idea  of,  which  was  suggested  by  a  striking 
situation  in  a  novel  by  M.  A.  Dumas  {Le  Capitaine  Paul). 
The  Author  withdrew  "The  Sea  Captain"  from  the  stage 
(and  even  from  printed  publication),  while  it  had  not  lost 
such  degree  of  favor  as  the  admirable  acting  of  Mr.  Mac- 
ready  chiefly  contributed  to  obtain  for  it;  intending  to 
replace  it  before  the  public  with  some  important  changes 
in  the  histrionic  cast,  and  certain  slight  alterations  in  the 
conduct  of  the  story.  But  the  alterations  once  commenced, 
became  so  extensive  in  character,  diction,  and  even  in 
revision  of  plot,  that  a  new  play  gradually  rose  from  the 
foundation  of  the  old  one.  The  task  thus  undertaken, 
being  delayed  by  other  demands  upon  time  and  thought, 
was  scarcely  completed  when  Mr.  Macready's  retirement 
from  his  profession  suspended  the  Author's  literary  con- 
nection with  the  stage,  and  "The  Rightful  Heir"  has  re- 
mained in  tranquil  seclusion  till  this  year,  when  he  submits 
his  appeal  to  the  proper  tribunal; — sure,  that  if  he  fail  of 
a  favorable  hearing,  it  will  not  be  the  fault  of  the  friends 
who  take  part  in  his  cause  and  act  in  his  behalf. 

London,  Sept.  28,  1868. 

208 


NOTE 

"The  Spanish  Armada  was  ready  in  the  beginning  of 
May,  but  the  moment  it  was  preparing  to  sail,  the  Marquis 
of  Santa  Croce,  the  Admiral,  was  seized  with  a  fever,  of 
which  he  soon  after  died.  ...  At  last  the  Spanish  fleet, 
full  of  hope  and  alacrity,  set  sail  from  Lisbon  May  29th, 
but  next  day  met  with  a  violent  tempest,  which  scattered 
the  ships — sunk  some  of  the  smallest,  and  forced  the  rest 
to  take  shelter  in  the  Groyne,  where  they  waited  till  they 
could  be  refitted.  When  news  of  this  event  was  carried 
to  England,  the  Queen  concluded  that  the  design  of  an  in- 
vasion was  disappointed  for  the  summer,  and,  being  always 
ready  to  lay  hold  on  every  pretence  for  saving  money,  she 
made  Walsingham  write  to  the  Admiral,  directing  him  to 
lay  up  some  of  the  larger  ships,  and  to  discharge  the  sea- 
men. But  Lord  Effingham,  who  was  not  so  sanguine  in 
his  hopes,  used  the  freedom  to  disobey  these  orders,  and 
he  begged  leave  to  retain  all  the  ships  in  service,  though 
it  should  be  at  his  own  expense.   .  .   . 

"Meanwhile,  all  the  damages  to  the  Armada  were  re- 
paired, and  the  Spaniards,  with  fresh  hopes,  set  out  again 
to  sea." — Hume. 


205 


DRAMATIS    PERSON^E 


-  Mr.  Herman  Vezdj. 


Lord  Beaufort,  Son  to  Lady  Montreville  .       .    Mr.  Neville. 

Sir  Grey  de  Malpas,  the  poor  cousin,  distantly ' 
connected  to  Lady  Montreville,  hut  next  in  suc- 
cession to  the  earldom,  on  failure  of  the  direct 
line 

Wrecklyffe,  a  disinherited  and  ruined  gentle-  \ 
man — who,  after  a  vicious  and  lawless  career  y  Mr.  Lawlor. 
on  land,  has  turned  pirate         .        .        .        .  ; 

Sir  GrODPREY  Seymour,  a  justice  of  the  peace    .    Mr.  George  Peel. 

Vyvyan,  the  captain  of  the  Dreadnought,  a  pri-  ) 
vateer f  Mr.  Bandmann. 

Falkner,  Vyvyan'' s  first  lieutenant  and  friend  .  Mr.  Lin  Rayne. 

Harding,  Vyvyan's  second  lieutenant .        .        .  Mr.  T.  Anderson. 

Marsden,  seneschal  to  Lady  Montreville     .        .  Mr.  David  Evans. 

Alton,  a  village  priest Mr.  Basil  Potter. 

A  Sub-Officer  on  board  the  Dreadnought         .  Mr.  Everard. 

Servants,  Sailors,  Clerk,  and  Halberdiers  attendant  on  Sir  Godfrey. 

Lady  Montreville,  a  countess  in  her  otvn  right    Mrs.  Herman  Vezin. 
Eveline,   her  ward— distantly  related   to  her,  i  tt   t> 

and  betrothed  to  Vyvyan ^  Miss  H.  Palmer. 


Time  occupied.— In  the  first  four  acts,  one  day.  Between  the  ith  and 
5th  acts  the  interval  of  a  year.  Time  supposed  to  be  occupied  by 
the  events  in  the  5th  act,  little  more  than  that  required  for  repre- 
sentation on  the  stage. 

Date  of  the  Play. — In  the  first  four  acts,  July,  1588 — the  year  of  the 
Armada.     The  5th  act,  the  Summer  of  1589. 


%*  There  are  a  few  omissions  and  verbal  alterations  in  the  stage  rep- 
resentation of  the  Play;  but  they  are  too  slig-ht  to  require 
special  notice  in  the  printed  text. 

First  perfornaed  on  Saturday,  the  3d  of  October,  1868,  at  the 
Lyceum  Theatre. 


(206) 


THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR 


ACT  I.— SCENE   I. 

In  the  foreground  the  house  of  SiR  Grey  de  Malpas,  small 
and  decayed,  the  casements  broken^  etc.  Ruins  around,  as  if 
the  jjresent  house  were  but  the  remaiiis  of  some  more  stately 
edifice  of  great  antiquity.  In  the  background,  a  view  of  the 
sea.  On  a  height  at  some  little  distance.,  the  castle  of  Montr e- 
ville,  the  sim  full  upon  its  tui'rets  and  gilded  vanes. 

N.B.  —  The  scene  to  be  so  contrived  that  the  grandeur  of  the 
castle  and  the  meanness  of  the  ruin  be  brought  into  conspicuous 
contrast. 

Sir  GrREY  at  work  on  a  patch  of  neglected  garden  ground: 
throios  down  his  spade  and  advances. 

Sir  G.    I  cannot  dig!     Fie,  what  a  helpless  thing 
Is  the  hand  of  wellborn  poverty! 
And  yet  between  this  squalor  and  that  pomp 
Stand  but  two  lives,  a  woman's  and  a  boy's — 
But  two  frail  lives.     I  may  outlive  them  both. 

Enter  Wrecklyffe. 

Wreck.    Ay,    that's    the    house — the    same;    the    master 
changed, 
But  less  than  I  am.     Winter  creeps  on  him, 
Lightning  hath  stricken  me.     Good-day. 

(207) 


208  BXJLWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [aot  I 

Sir  O.  Pass  on. 

No  spendthrift  hospitable  food  spreads  here 
The  board  for  strangers.     Pass. 

Wreck.  Have  years  so  dimmed 

Eyes  once  so  keen,  De  Malpas? 

Sir  O.  [after  a  pause].  Ha!     Thy  hand. 

What  brings  thee  hither? 

Wreck.  "Brings  me?"  say  "hurls  back." 

First,  yellow  pestilence,  whose  ghastly  wings 
Guard,  like  the  fabled  griffin,  India's  gold; 
Unequal  battle  next;  then  wolfish  famine; 
And  lastly,  storm  (rough  welcome  home  to  England) 
Swept  decks  from  stern  to  stem;  to  shore  was  flung 
A  lonely  pirate  on  a  battered  hulk! 
One  wreck  rots  stranded; — you  behold  the  other. 

Sir  G.   Penury   hath  still  its  crust   and  roof-tree — share 
them. 
Time  has  dealt  hardly  with  us  both,  since  first 
We     two     made     friendship— thou    straight-limbed,    well- 
favored, 
Stern-hearted,  disinherited  dare-devil! 

Wreck.   And  thou! 

Sir  O.  A  stroke  paints  me.     My  lord's  poor  cousin. 

How  strong  thou  wert,  yet  I  could  twist  and  wind  thee 
Round  these  slight  hands; — that  is  the  use  of  brains! 

Wreck.  Still  jokes  and  stings? 

Sir  G.  Still  a  poor  cousin's  weapons. 

Wreck.  Boast  brains,  yet  starve? 

Sir  G.  Still  a  poor  cousin's  fate,  sir. 

Pardon  my  brains,  since  oft  thy  boasts  they  pardoned; 
(Sad  chance  since  then),  when  rufflers  aped  thy  swagger. 
And  village  maidens  sighed  and,  wondering,  asked 


SCENE  I]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR 

Why  Heaven  made  men  so  wicked — and  so  comely. 

Wreck.   'Sdeath!     Wilt  thou  cease  ? 

Sir  O.  That  scar  upon  thy  front 

Bespeaks  grim  service. 

Wreck.  lu  thy  cause,  de  Malpas; 

The  boy,  whom  at  thine  instance  I  allured 
On  board  my  bark,  left  me  this  brand  of  Cain. 

Sir  G.  That  boy 

Wreck.  Is  now  a  man — and  on  these  shores. 
This  morn  I  peered  from  yonder  rocks  that  hid  me, 
And  saw  his  face.     I  whetted  then  this  steel: 
Need'st  thou  his  death?     In  me  behold  Revenge! 

Sir  0.  He  lives!— he  lives  1     There  is  a  third  between 
The  beggar  and  the  earldom! 

Wreck.  Steps  and  voices  1 

When  shall  we  meet  alone?     Hush,  it  is  he! 

Sir  G.  He  with  the  plume  ? 

Wreck.  Ay. 

Sir  G.  Quick;  within. 

Wreck.  And  thou? 

Sir  G.  I  dig  the  earth;  see  the  grave-digger's  tool. 

[_Exit  Wrecklyffe  within  the  house. 

Enter  Harding  and  Sailors. 

Hard.  Surely  'twas  here  the  captain  bade  us  meet  him 
While  he  went  forth  for  news? 

1st  Sailor.  He  comes. 

Enter  Vyvyan. 
Hard.  Well,  captain, 

What  tidings  of  the  Spaniards'  armament? 
Vyv.  Bad,  for  they  say  the  fighting  is  put  olf, 


210  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  I 

And  storm  in  Biscay  driven  back  the  Dons. 
This  is  but  rumor — we  will  learn  the  truth, 
Harding,  take  horse  and  bear  these  lines  to  Drake — 
If  yet  our  country  needs  stout  hearts  to  guard  her, 
He'll  not  forget  the  men  on  board  the  Dreadnought, 
Thou  can'st  be  back  ere  sunset  with  his  answer, 
And  find  me  in  yon  towers  of  Montreville. 

[Exit  Harding. 
Meanwhile  make  merry  in  the  hostel,  lads. 
And  drink  me  out  these  ducats  in  this  toast: — 
"No  foes  be  tall  eno'  to  wade  the  moat 
Wliich  girds  the  fort  whose  only  walls  are  men." 

[Sailors  cheer^  and  exeunt. 
Vyv.  I  never  hailed  reprieve  from  war  till  now. 
Heaven  grant  but  time  to  see  mine  Eveline, 
And  learn  my  birth  from  Alton. 

Enter  Falkner. 

Falk.  Captain. 

Vyv.  Falkner! 

So  soon  returned  ?     Thy  smile  seems  fresh  from  home. 
All  well  there? 

Falk.  Just  in  time  to  make  all  well. 

My  poor  old  father! — bailiffs  at  his  door; 
He  tills  another's  land,  and  crops  had  failed. 
I  poured  mine  Indian  gold  into  his  lap, 
And  cried  "O  father,  wilt  thou  now  forgive 
The  son  who  went  to  sea  against  thy  will  ?" 

Vyv.  And  he  forgave. —Now  tell  me  of  thy  mother; 
I  never  knew  one,  but  I  love  to  mark 
The  quiver  of  a  strong  man's  bearded  lip 


SCENE  l]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  211 

When  his  voice  lingers  on  the  name  of  mother. 
Thy  mother  bless'd  thee 

FaJk,  Yes,  I [Falters  and  turns  aside. 

Pshaw!  methought 
Her  joy  was  weeping  on  my  breast  again! 

Vyv.  I  envy  thee  those  tears. 

Falk.  E no'  of  me! 

Now  for  thyself.     What  news  ?     Thy  fair  betrothed — 
The  maid  we  rescued  from  the  turbaned  corsair 
With  her  brave  father  in  the  Indian  seas — 
Found  and  still  faithful  ? 

Vyv.  Faithful,  I  will  swear  it; 

But  not  yet  found.     Her  sire  is  dead — the  stranger 
Sits  at  his  hearth — and  with  her  next  of  kin, 
Hard  by  this  spot — yea,  in  yon  sunlit  towers, 
Mine  Eveline  dwells. 

Falk.  Thy  foster  father,  Alton. 

Hast  thou  seen  him  ? 

Vyv.  Not  yet.     My  Falkner,  serve  me. 

His  house  is  scarce  a  two  hours'  journey  hence, 
The  nearest  hamlet  will  afford  a  guide; 
Seek  him  and  break  the  news  of  my  return, 
Say  I  shall  see  him  ere  the  day  be  sped. 
And,  hearken,  friend  (good  men  at  home  are  apt 
To  judge  us  sailors  harshly),  tell  him  this — 
On  the  far  seas  his  foster  son  recalled 
Prayers  taught  by  age  to  childhood,  and  implored 
Blessing  on  that  gray  head.     Farewell!     Now,  Eveline. 

[Exeunt  severally^  Vyvyan  and  Falkner. 

Sir   O.    [advancing].    Thou  seekest  those  towers — go.     I 
will  meet  thee  there. 
He  must  not  see  the  priest — the  hour  is  come 


212  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  I 

Absolving  Alton's  vow  to  guard  the  secret; 
Since  the  boy  left,  two  'scutcheons  moulder  o'er 
The  dust  of  tombs  from  which  his  rights  ascend; 
He  must  not  see  the  priest — but  how  forestall  him  ? — 
Within!     For  there  dwells  Want,  Wit's  counsellor, 
Harboring  grim  Force,  which  is  Ambition's  tool. 

[Exit  Sir  Grey. 

SCENE   II. 

7'he  gardens  of  the  castle  of  Montreville,  laid  out  in  the  for- 
tnal  style  of  the  times.  Parterres  sunk  deep  in  beds  of  arabesque 
design.  The  gardens  are  inclosed  within  an  embattled  2vaU, 
lohich  sinks,  here  and  there,  into  low  ornamented  parapets^ 
over  whicli  the  eye  catches  a  glinipse  of  the  sea,  luhich  is  imme- 
diately beJoiu.  A  postern  gate  in  the  luall  is  open,  through 
ivhich  descends  a  flight  of  steps,  hewn  out  of  the  cliff. 

Enter  Lady  Montreville. 
Lady  M.  This  were  his  birthday,  were  he  living  still! 
But  the  wide  ocean  is  his  winding  sheet, 
And   his  grave — here!    [Pressing  her  hand  to  her  heart.']  I 

dreamed  of  him  last  night! 
Peace!  with  the  dead,  died  shame  and  glozing  slander; 
In  the  son  left  me  still,  I  clasp  a  world 
Of  blossoming  hopes  which  flower  beneath  my  love, 
And  take  frank  beauty  from  the  flattering  day. 

And but  my  Clarence! in  his  princely  smile 

How  the  air  brightens! 

Enter  LoRD  Beaufort,  speaking  to  Marsden. 
Lord  B.  Yes,  my  gallant  roan, 

And,  stay — be  sure  the  falcon,  which  my  lord 


SCENE  u]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  213 

Of  Leicester  sent  me;  we  will  try  its  mettle. 

Mars.  Your  eyes  do  bless  him,  madam,  so  do  mine: 
A  gracious  spring;  Heaven  grant  we  see  its  summerl 
Forgive,  dear  lady,  your  old  servant's  freedom. 

Lady  M.    Who  loves  him  best  with   me  ranks  highest, 
Marsden.  [Exit  Marsden. 

Clarence,  you  see  me  not. 

Lord  B.  Dear  mother,  welcome. 

"Why  do  I  miss  my  soft-eyed  cousin  here? 

Lady  M.  It  doth  not  please  me,  son,  that  thou  should'st 
haunt 
Her  steps,  and  witch  with  dulcet  words  her  ear. 
Eveline  is  fair,  but  not  the  mate  for  Beaufort. 

Lord  B.    Mate!     Awful  word!     Can  youth  not  gaze  on 
beauty, 
Save  by  the  torch  of  Hymen  ?     To  be  gallant. 
Melt  speech  in  sighs,  or  murder  sense  in  sonnets; 
Veer  with  each  change  in  Fancy's  April  skies, 
And  o'er  each  sun-shower  fling  its  fleeting  rainbow. 
All  this 

Lady  M.  [gloomily'].  Alas,  is  love. 

Lord  B.  No!  Love's  light  prologue. 

The  sportive  opening  to  the  serious  drama; 
The  pastime  practice  of  Dan  Cupid's  bow. 
Against  that  solemn  venture  at  the  butts 
At  which  fools  make  so  many  random  shafts, 
And  rarely  hit  the  white!     Nay,  smile,  my  mother; 
How  does  this  plume  become  me  ? 

Lady  M.  Foolish  boy! 

It  sweeps  too  loosely. 

Lord  B.  Nowadays  man's  love 

Is  worn  as  loosely  as  I  wear  this  plume — 


214  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  i 

A  glancing  feather  swept  with  every  wind 

Into  new  shadows  o'er  a  giddy  brain 

Such  as  your  son's.     Let  the  plume  play,  sweet  mother  I 

Lady  M.   Would  I  could  chide  thee! 

Lord  B.  Hark,  I  hear  my  steed 

Neighing  impatience;  and  my  falcon  frets 
Noon's  lazy  air  with  lively  silver  bells; 
Now,  madam,  look  to  it — no  smile  from  me 
When  next  we  meet, — no  kiss  of  filial  duty, 
Unless  my  fair-faced  cousin  stand  beside  you, 
Blushing  "Peccavi"  for  all  former  sins — 
Shy  looks,  cold  words,  this  last  unnatural  absence, 
And  taught  how  cousins  should  behave  to  cousins, 

[Exit  Lord  Beaufort. 

Lady  M.  Trifler!     And  yet  the  faults  that  quicken  fear 
Make  us  more  fond — we  parents  love  to  pardon. 

Enter  EvELINE  weaving  flowers — not  seeing  Lady  Montre- 

VILLE. 

Evel.  [Sings] — 

Bud  from  the  blossom, 

And  leaf  from  tlie  tree, 
Guess  why  in  weaving 

I  sing  "Woe  is  me!" — 

'Tis  that  I  weave  yon 

To  drift  on  the  sea, 
And  say,  when  ye  find  liim, 

Wlio  sang  "Woe  is  me!" — 

l^Casts  the  flowers,  woven  into  a  garland,  over  the  parapet, 
and  advances. 
Lady  M.   A  quaint  but  mournful  rhyme. 
Evel.  You,  madam! — pardon! 

Lady  M.  What  tells  the  song? 
Evel.  A  simple  village  tale 


SCENE  n]  THE   RIGHTFUL   HEIR  215 

Of  a  lost  seaman,  and  a  crazed  girl, 
His  plighted  bride — good  Marsden  knew  her  well, 
And  oft-times  marked  her  singing  on  the  beach, 
Then  launch  her  flowers,  and  smile  upon  tlie  sea. 
I  know  not  why — both  rhyme  and  tale  do  haunt  me. 

Lady  M.    Sad    thoughts   haunt   not   young    hearts,   thou 
senseless  child. 

Evel.  Is  not  the  child  an  orphan? 

Lady  M.  In  those  eyes 

Is  there  no  moisture  softer  than  the  tears 
Which  mourn  a  father?     Eoves  thy  glance  for  Beaufort? 
Vain  girl,  beware!     The  flattery  of  the  great 
Is  but  the  eagle's  swoop  upon  the  dove, 
And,  in  descent,  destroys. 

Evel.  Can  you  speak  thus, 

Yet  bid  me  grieve  not  that  I  am  an  orphan? 

[Retires  up  the  garden. 

Lady  M.   \to  herself].   I   have  high  dreams  for  Beaufort; 
bright  desires! 
Son  of  a  race  whose  lives  shine  down  on  Time 
From  lofty  tombs,  like  beacon-towers  o'er  ocean, 
He  stands  amidst  the  darkness  of  my  thoughts, 
Radiant  as  Hope  in  some  lone  captive's  cell. 
Far  from  the  gloom  around,  mine  eyes,  inspired, 
Pierce  to  the  future,  when  these  bones  are  dust, 
And  see  him  loftiest  of  the  lordly  choirs 
Whose  swords  and  coronals  blaze  around  the  throne, 
The  guardian  stars  of  the  imperial  isle — 
Kings  shall  revere  his  mother. 

Enter  SiR  Grey,  speaking  to  Servant. 
Sir  O.  What  say'st  thou? 


216  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC   WORKS  [ACT  I 

Servant  [insolently].    Sir   Grey — ha!    ha!— Lord   Beaufort 
craves  your  pardon, 
He  shot  your  hound — its  bark  disturbed  the  deer. 

Sir  O.  The  only  voice  that  welcomed  me !     A  dog — 
Grudges  he  that? 

Servant,  Oh  sir,  'twas  done  in  kindness 

To  you  and  him;  the  dog  was  wondrous  lean,  sir! 

Sir  G.  I  thank  my  lord.  [Exit  Servant. 

So,  my  poor  Tray  is  killed! 
And  yet  that  dog  but  barked — can  this  not  bite? 

[Approaches  Lady  Montreville  vindictively,  and  in 
a  whisper — 
He  lives! 

Lady  M.  He!  who? 

Sir  G.  The  heir  of  Montreville! 

Another,  and  an  elder  Beaufort,  lives! 
[Aside.]  So — the  fang  fixes  fast — good — good ! 

Lady  M.  Thou  saidst 

Ten  years  ago — "Thy  first-born  is  no  more — 
Died  in  far  seas." 

Sir  G.  So  swore  my  false  informant. 

But  now,  the  deep  that  took  the  harmless  boy 
Casts  from  its  breast  the  bold -eyed  daring  man. 

Lady  M.  Clarence!     My  poor  proud  Clarence! 

Sir  G.  Ay,  poor  Clarence! 

True;  since  his  father,  by  his  former  nuptials, 
Had  other  sons,  if  you,  too,  own  his  elder, 
Clarence  is  poor — as  poor  as  his  poor  cousin. 
Ugh!  but  the  air  is  keen,  and  Poverty 
Is  thinly  clad;  subject  to  rheums  and  agues  [shivers]^ 
Asthma  and  phthisis  [coughs].,  pains  in  the  loins  and  limbs. 
And  leans  upon  a  crutch,  like  your  poor  cousin. 


SCENE  II]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  217 

If  Poverty  begs,  Law  sets  it  in  the  stocks; 

If  it  is  ill,  the  doctors  mangle  it; 

If  it  is  dying,  the  priests  scold  at  it; 

And  when  'tis  dead,  rich  kinsmen  cry,  "Thank  Heaven!" 

Ah!  if  the  elder  prove  his  rights,  dear  lady, 

Your  younger  son  will  know  what's  poverty! 

Lady  M.  Malignant,  peace!  why  dost  thou  torture  me? 
The  priest  who  shares  alone  with  us  the  secret 
Hath  sworn  to  guard  it. 

Sir  G.  Only  while  thy  sire 

And  second  lord  survived.     Yet,  what  avails 
In  law  his  tale,  unbacked  by  thy  confession  ? 

Lady  M.  All!     He  hath  proofs,  clear  proofs.     Thrice  woe 
to  Clarence! 

Sir  G.  Proofs — written  proofs  ? 

Lady  M.  Of  marriage,  and  the  birth! 

Sir  G.  Wherefore  so  long  was  this  concealed  from  me? 

Lady  M.  Thou  wert  my  father's  agent.  Grey  de  Malpas, 
Not  my  familiar. 

Sir  G.  Here,  then,  ends  mine  errand. 

Lady  M.  Stay,  sir — forgive  my  rash  and  eager  temper; 
Stay,  stay,  and  counsel  me.     What!  sullen  still? 
Needest  thou  gold  ? — befriend,  and  find  me  grateful. 

Sir  G.  Lady  of  Montreville,  I  once  was  young, 

And  pined  for  gold,  to  wed  the  maid  I  loved: 

Your  father  said,  "Poor  cousins  should  not  marry," 

And  gave  that  sage  advice  in  lieu  of  gold. 

A  few  years  later,  and  I  grew  ambitious. 

And  longed  for  wars  and  fame,  and  foolish  honors: 

Then  I  lacked  gold,  to  join  the  knights,  mine  equals, 

As  might  become  a  Malpas  and  your  kinsman: 

Your  father  said  he  had  need  of  his  poor  cousin 

Bulwer,  Vol.  XXX  ♦J 


218  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  I 

At  home  to  be  his  huntsman,  and  his  falconer! 

Lady  M.   Forgetful!     After  my  first  fatal  nuptials 
And  their  sad  fruit,  count  you  as  naught 

Sir  0.  My  hire! 

For  service  and  for  silence ;  not  a  gift. 

Lady  M.  And  spent  in  riot,  waste,  and  wild  debauch! 

Sir  G.  True;  in  the  pauper's  grand  inebriate  wish 
To  know  what  wealth  is, — tho'  but  for  an  hour. 

Lady  M.    But    blame    you    me   or  mine,    if   spendthrift 
wassail 
Eun  to  the  dregs?     Mine  halls  stand  open  to  you; 
My  noble  Beaufort  hath  not  spurned  your  converse; 
You  have  been  welcomed- — 

Sir  G.  At  your  second  table, 

And  as  the  butt  of  unchastised  lackeys; 
While  your  kind  son,  in  pity  of  my  want, 
Hath  this  day  killed  the  faithful  dog  that  shared  it. 
'Tis  well;  you  need  my  aid,  as  did  your  father, 
And  tempt,  like  him,  with  gold.     I  take  the  service; 
And,  when  the  task  is  done,  will  talk  of  payment. 
Hist!  the  boughs  rustle.     Closer  space  were  safer; 
Vouchsafe  your  hand,  let  us  confer  within. 

Lady   M.    Well   might  I  dream    last    night!      A    fearful 
dream.     [Exeunt  Lady  Montreville  and  Sir  Grey. 

Re-enter  Eveline. 

Evel.   0,  for  some  fairy  talisman  to  conjure 
Up  to  these  longing  eyes  the  form  they  pine  for! 
And  yet  in  love  there's  no  such  word  as  absence; 
The  loved  one  glides  beside  our  steps  forever; 
Its  presence  gave  such  beauty  to  the  world, 
That  all  things  beautiful  its  tokens  are, 


SCENE  II]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  219 

And  aught  in  sound  most  sweet,  to  sight  most  fair, 
Breathes  with  its  voice,  and  haunts  us  with  its  aspect. 

Enter  Vyvyan  through  the  postern  gate. 

There  spoke  my  fancy,  not  my  heart!     Where  art  thou, 
My  unforgotten  Vyvyan  ? 

Vyv.  At  thy  feet! 

Look  up ! — look  up ! — these  are  the  arms  that  sheltered 
When  the  storm  howled  around;  and  the  lips 
Where,  till  this  hour,  the  sad  and  holy  kiss 
Of  parting  lingered,  as  the  fragrance  left 
By  angels,  when  they  touch  the  earth  and  vanish. 
Look  up;  night  never  hungered  for  the  sun 
As  for  thine  eyes  my  soul ! 

Evel  Oh!  3oy,  joy,  joy! 

Vyv.  Yet  weeping  still,  tho'  leaning  on  my  breast! 
My  sailor's  bride,  hast  thou  no  voice  but  blushes? 
Nay  from  those  drooping  roses  let  me  steal 
The  coy  reluctant  sweetness! 

Evel.  And,  methought 

I  had  treasured  words,  'twould  take  a  life  to  utter 
When  we  should  meet  again! 

Vyv.  Recall  them  later. 

We  shall  have  time  eno',  when  life  with  life 
Blends  into  one; — why  dost  thou  start  and  tremble? 

Evel.  Methought  I  heard  her  slow  and  solemn  footfall! 

Vyv.  Her!     Why,   thou   speak'st  of   woman:   the   meek 
word 
W  hich  never  chimes  with  terror. 

Evel.  You  know  not 

The  dame  of  Montreville. 

Vyv.  Is  she  so  stern  ? 


220  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  I 

Evel.  Not  stern,  but  haughty:  as  if  high-born  virtue 
Swept  o'er  the  earth  to  scorn  the  faults  it  pardoned. 

Yyv.   Haughty  to  thee  ? 

Evel.  To  all,  ev'n  when  the  kindest; 

Nay,  I  do  wrong  her;  never  trf  her  son; 
And  when  those  proud  eyes  moisten  as  they  hail  him, 
Hearts  lately  stung,  yearn  to  a  heart  so  human! 
Alas,  that  parent  love!  how  in  its  loss 
All  life  seems  shelterless ! 

Vyv.  Like  thee,  perchance, 

Looking  round  earth  for  that  same  parent  shelter, 
I  too  may  find  but  tombs.     So,  turn  we  both, 
Orphans,  to  that  lone  parent  of  the  lonely, 
That  doth  like  Sorrow  ever  upward  gaze 
On  calm  consoling  stars — the  mother  Sea. 

Evel.  Call  not  the  cruel  sea  by  that  mild  name. 

Vyv.  She  is  not  cruel  if  her  breast  swell  high 
Against  the  winds  that  thwart  her  loving  aim 
To  link,  by  every  raft  whose  course  she  speeds, 
Man's  common  brotherhood  from  pole  to  pole; 
Grant  she  hath  danger — danger  schools  the  brave, 
And  bravery  leaves  all  cruel  things  to  cowards. 
Grant  that  she  hardens  us  to  fear, — the  hearts 
Most  proof  to  fear  are  easiest  moved  to  love. 
As  on  the  oak  whose  roots  defy  the  storm 
All  the  leaves  tremble  when  the  south-wind  stirs. 
Yet  if  the  sea  dismay  thee,  on  the  shores 
Kissed  by  her  waves,  and  far,  as  fairy  isles 
In  poets'  dreams,  from  this  gray  care-worn  world, 
Blooms  many  a  bower  for  the  Sea  Rover's  bride. 
I  know  a  land  where  feathering  palm-trees  shade 
To  delicate  twilight,  suns  benign  as  those 


SCENE  II]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEm  221 

Whose  dawning  gilded  Eden; — Nature,  there, 

Like  a  gay  spendthrift  in  his  flush  of  youth, 

Flings  whole  treasure  on  the  lap  of  Time. 

There,  steeped  in  roseate  hues,  the  lakelike  sea 

Heaves  to  an  air  whose  breathing  is  ambrosia; 

And,  all  the  while,  bright-winged  and  warbling  birds. 

Like  happy  souls  released,  melodious  float 

Thro'  blissful  light,  and  teach  the  ravished  earth 

How  joy  finds  voice  in  Heaven.     Come,  rest  we  yonder. 

And,  side  by  side,  forget  that  we  are  orphans! 

[Vyvyan  and  Eveline  retire  up  the  stage. 

Enter  Lady  Monteeville  and  Sir  Grey. 

Lady  M.   Yet  still,  if  Alton  sees 

Sir  G.  Without  the  proofs, 

Why,  Alton's  story  were  but  idle  wind; 
The  man  I  send  is  swift  and  strong,  and  ere 
This  Vyvyan  (who  would  have  been  here  before  me 
But  that  I  took  the  shorter  path)  depart 
From  your  own  threshold  to  the  priest's  abode, 
Our  agent  gains  the  solitary  dwelling. 
And 

Lady  M.   But  no  violence! 

Sir  O.  Nay,  none  but  fear — 

Fear  will  suffice  to  force,  from  trembling  age 
Your  safety,  and  preserve  your  Beaufort's  birthright. 

Lady  M.  Let  me  not  hear  the  ignominious  means; 
Gain  thou  the  end; — quick — quick! 

Sir  G.  And  if,  meanwhile, 

This  sailor  come,  be  nerved  to  meet — a  stranger; 
And  to  detain — a  guest. 

Lady  M.  My  heart  is  wax, 

But  my  will,  iron — go. 


222  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  I 

Sir  0.  \_aside\.  To  fear  add  force — 

And  this  hand  closes  on  the  proofs,  and  welds 
That  iron  to  a  tool.  [Exit  Sir  Grey. 

Re-enter  Vyvyan  and  Eveline. 

Evel.  Nay,  Vyvyan — nay, 

Your  guess  can  fathom  not  how  proud  her  temper. 

Vyv.  Tut  for  her  pride!  a  king  upon  the  deck 
Is  every  subject's  equal  in  the  hall. 
I  will  advance.     [He  uncovers.'^ 

Lady  M.  Avenging  angels  spare  mel 

Vyv.  Pardon  the  seeming  boldness  of  my  presence. 

Evel.   Our  gallant  countryman,  of  whom  my  father 
So  often  spake — who  from  the  Algerine 
Eescued  our  lives  and  freedom. 

Lady  M.  Ah !     Your  name,  sir  ? 

Vyv.  The  name  1  bear  is  Vyvyan,  noble  lady. 

Lady  M.  Sir,  you  are  welcome.     Walk  within,  and  hold 
Our  home  your  hostel,  while  it  lists  you. 

Vyv.  Madam, 

I  shall  be  prouder  in  all  after  time 
For  having  been  your  guest. 

Lady  M.  How  love  and  dread 

Make  tempest  herel     I  pray  you  follow  me. 

[Exit  Lady  Montreville. 

Vyv.   A  most  majestic  lady — her  fair  face 
Made  my  heart  tremble,  and  called  back  old  dreams: 
Thou  saidst  she  had  a  son  ? 

Evel.  Ah,  yes. 

Vyv.  In  truth 

A  happy  man. 


SCENE  I]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  223 

Evel.  Yet  he  might  envy  thee! 

Yyv.  Most  arch  reprover,  yes.     As  kings  themselves 
Might  envy  one  whose  arm  entwines  his  all. 

[Exeunt  Eveline  and  Vyvyan. 


ACT   II.— SCENE   I. 

A  Gothic  chamber.  On  one  side  a  huge  hearth,  over  which 
an  armorial  ^scutcheon  and  an  earVs  coronet,  boldly  carved. 
The  walls  covered  with  old  portraits — tall  beaufets  in  recesses 
filled  with  goblets  and  other  vessels  of  silver.  An  open  door 
admits  a  view  of  a  cloister,  and  the  alleys  in  the  courtyard 
without. 

A   table  spread  with  fruits  and  wines,  at  which  are  seated 
Lady  Montreville,  Vyvyan  and  Eveline. 

Vyv.  Ha!  ha!     In  truth  we  made  a  scurvy  figure 
After  our  shipwreck. 

Lady  M.  You  jest  merrily 

On  your  misfortunes. 

Vyv.  'Tis  the  way  with  sailors: 

Still  in  extremes.     I  can  be  sad  sometimes. 

Lady  M.  That  sigh,  in  truth,  speaks  sadness.     Sir,  if  I 
In  aught  could  serve  you,  trust  me. 

Evel.  Trust  her,  Yyvyan. 

Methinks  the  mournful  tale  of  thy  young  years 
Would  raise  thee  up  a  friend,  wherever  pity 
Lives.in  the  heart  of  woman. 

Vyv.  Grentle  lady, 

The  key  of  some  charmed  music  in  your  voice 


224  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  n 

Unlocks  a  haunted  chamber  in  my  soul; 
And — would  you  listen  to  an  outcast's  tale,— 
'Tis  briefly  told.     Until  my  fifteenth  year, 
Beneath  the  roof  of  a  poor  village  priest, 
Not  far  from  hence,  my  childhood  wore  away; 
Then  stirred  within  me  restless  thoughts  and  deep; — 
Throughout  the  liberal  and  harmonious  nature 
Something  seemed  absent, — what,  I  scarcely  knew, 
Till  one  calm  night,  when  over  slumbering  seas 
"Watched  the  still  heaven,  and  down  on  every  wave 
Looked  some  soft  lulling  star — the  instinctive  want 
Learned  what  it  pined  for;  and  I  asked  the  priest 
With  a  quick  sigh — "Why  I  was  motherless?" 

Lady  M.  And  he? — 

Vyv.  Replied  that — I  was  nobly  born, 

And  that  the  cloud  which  dimmed  a  dawning  sun. 
Oft  but  foretold  its  splendor  at  the  noon. 
As  thus  he  spoke,  faint  memories  struggling  came — 
Faint  as  the  things  some  former  life  hath  known. 

Lady  M.  Of  what  ? 

Vyv.  A  face  sweet  with  a  stately  sorrow. 

And  lips  which  breathed  the  words  that  mothers  murmur. 

Lady  M.   [aside].  Back,  tell-tale  tears! 

Vyv.  About  that  time,  a  stranger 

Came  to  our  hamlet;  rough,  yet,  some  said,  well-born; 
Eoysterer,  and  comrade,  such  as  youth  delights  in. 
Sailor  he  called  himself,  and  naught  belied 
The  sailor's  metal  ringing  in  his  talk 
Of  El  Dorados,  and  Enchanted  Isles, 
Of  hardy  Raleigh,  and  of  fearless  Drake, 
And  great  Columbus  with  prophetic  eyes 
Fixed  on  a  dawning  world.     His  legends  fired  me— 


SCENE  I]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  225 

And,  from  the  deep  whose  billows  washed  our  walls, 
The  alluring  wave  called  with  a  siren's  music, 
And  thus  I  left  my  home  with  that  wild  seaman. 

Lady  M.  The  priest,  consenting,  still  divulged  not  more? 

Vyv.  No;  nor  rebuked  mine  ardor.     "Go,"  he  said, 
"The  noblest  of  all  nobles  are  the  men 
In  whom  their  country  feels  herself  ennobled." 

Lady  M.    [aside\.   I  breathe  again.     Well,  thus  you  left 
these  shores 

Vyv.  Scarce  had  the  brisker  sea- wind  filled  our  sails, 
When  the  false  traitor  who  had  lured  my  trust 
Cast  me  to  chains  and  darkness.     Days  went  by, 
At  length — one  belt  of  desolate  waters  round, 
And  on  the  decks  one  scowl  of  swarthy  brows, 
(A  hideous  crew,  the  refuse  of  all  shores) — 
Under  the  flapping  of  his  raven  flag 
The  pirate  stood  revealed,  and  called  his  captive. 
Grimly  he  heard  my  boyish  loud  upbraidings. 
And  grimly  smiled  in  answering:  "I,  like  thee, 
Cast  off,  and  disinherited,  and  desperate. 
Had  but  one  choice,  death  or  the  pirate's  flag — 
Choose  thou — I  am  more  gracious  than  thy  kindred; 
I  proffer  life;  the  gold  they  gave  me  paid 
Thy  grave  in  ocean! 

Lady  M.  Hold !     The  demon  lied  I 

Yyv.  Swift,  as  I  answered  so,  his  blade  flashed  forth; 
But  self-defence  is  swifter  still  than  slaughter; 
I  plucked  a  sword  from  one  who  stood  beside  me, 
And  smote  the  slanderer  to  my  feet.     Then  all 
That  human  hell  broke  loose;  oaths  rang,  steel  lightened, 
When,  in  the  death-swoon  of  the  caitiff  chief, 
The  pirate  next  in  rank  forced  back  the  swarm, 


226  BULWER-S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  U 

And — in  that  superstition  of  the  sea 

Which  makes  the  sole  religion  of  its  outlaws — 

Forbade  my  doom  by  bloodshed — griped  and  bound  me 

To  a  slight  plank;  spread  to  the  winds  the  sail, 

And  left  me  on  the  waves  alone  with  God. 

Evel.  Pause.     Let  my  hand  take  thine — feel  its  warm  life, 
And,  shuddering  less,  thank  Him  whose  eye  was  o'er  thee. 

Vyv.  3^hat  day,  and  all  that  night,  upon  the  seas 
Tossed  the  frail  barrier  between  life  and  death; 
Heaven  lulled  the  gales;  and  when  the  stars  came  forth 
All  looked  so  bland  and  gentle  that  I  wept, 
Eecalled  that  wretch's  words,  and  murmured,  "All, 
Ev'n  wave  and  wind,  are  kinder  than  my  kindred!" 
But — nay,  sweet  lady 

Lady  M.  Heed  me  not.     Night  passed 

Vyv.  Day  dawned;  and,  glittering  in  the  sun,  behold 
A  sail — a  flag! 

Evel  Well— well  ? 

Vyv.  Like  hope,  it  vanished! 

IMoon  glaring  came — with  noon  came  thirst  and  famine. 
And  with  parched  lips  I  called  on  death,  and  sought 
To  wrench  my  limbs  from  the  stiff  cords  that  gnawed 
Into  the  flesh,  and  drop  into  the  deep: 
And  then — the  clear  wave  trembled,  and  below 
I  saw  a  dark,  swift-moving,  shapeless  thing. 
With  watchful,  glassy  eyes; — the  ghastly  shark 
Swam  hungering  round  its  prey — then  life  once  more 
Grew  sweet,  and  with  a  strained  and  horrent  gaze 
And  lifted  hair  I  floated  on,  till  sense 
Grew  dim,  and  dimmer;  and  a  terrible  sleep 
(In  which  still — still — those  livid  eyes  met  mine) 
Fell  on  me — and ■ 


SCENE  ij  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  227 

Evel.  Quick — quick! 

Vyo.  I  woke,  and  heard 

My  native  tongue!     Kind  looks  were  bent  upon  me. 
1  lay  on  deck — escaped  the  ravening  death — 
For  God  had  watched  the  sleeper. 

Evel.  Oh,  such  memories 

Make  earth,  forever  after,  nearer  heaven; 
And  each  new  hour  an  altar  for  thanksgiving. 

Lady  M.  Break  not  the  tale  my  ear  yet  strains  to  listen. 

Vyv.  True  lion  of  the  ocean  was  the  chief 
Of  that  good  ship.     Beneath  his  fostering  eyes, 
Nor  all  ungraced  by  Drake's  illustrious  praise, 
And  the  frank  clasp  of  Raleigh's  kingly  hand, 
I  fought  my  way  to  manhood.     At  his  death 
The  veteran  left  me  a  more  absolute  throne 
Than  Caesar  filled — his  war-ship  for  my  realm, 
And  to  the  ocean,  hope, — and  measure  it! 
Nameless,  I  took  his  name.     My  tale  is  done — 
And  e  ;ch  past  sorrow,  like  a  wave  on  shore, 
Dies  on  this  golden  hour.  [Turns  to  EVELINE. 

Lady  M.  [observing  them].   He  loves  my  ward, 
Whom  Clarence,  too — that  thought  piles  fear  on  fear; 
Yet,  hold — that  very  rivalship  gives  safety — 
Affords  pretext  to  urge  the  secret  nuptials. 
And  the  prompt  parting,  ere  he  meet  with  Alton. 
I — but  till  Nature  sobs  itself  to  peace, 
Here's  that  which  chokes  all  reason.     "Will  ye  not 
Taste  summer  air  cooled  through  yon  shadowy  alleys  ? 
Anon  I'll  join  you.  [Exit  Lady  Montreville. 

Vyv.  We  will  wait  your  leisure. 

A  most  compassionate  and  courteous  lady — 
How  couldst  thou  call  her  proud? 


228  BULWERS    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  n 

Evel.  Nay,  ever  henceforth, 

For  the  soft  pity  she  hath  shown  to  thee, 
I'll  love  her  as  a  mother. 

Yyv.  Thus  I  thank  thee  [kissing  her  hand]. 

\Exeunt  through  the  cloisters. 


SCENE   II. 

Exterior  of  the  castle.  On  one  side,  a  terrace,  with  a  low 
embattled  'parapet,  hangs  over  the  rock  on  which  the  castle  is 
built,  and  admits  a  glimpse  of  the  scene  below.  On  another 
side,  the  ground  stretches  away  into  avenues  and  alleys.  The 
castle,  thus  seen,  takes  tJte  character  of  a  strong  fortified  hold. 

N.B.  —  The  scene  should  present  the  space  ivithin  a  vast,  hut 
irregular  embattled  wall,  large  enough  to  inclose  trees  and  un- 
dulati^ig  grouyid.  The  cloister,  ivith  the  door  leading  to  LadY 
Montreville's  apartment,  loill  form  part  of ,  the  building^ 
and  a  gate  of  great  strength,  with  portcullis,  etc.,  should  form 
a  side  scene.  Through  this  gate,  as  the  principal  portal., 
will  enter  Lord  Beaufort,  and,  toivard  the  end  of  the  act., 
Falkner. 

Enter  Sir  Grey  de  Malpas  from  the  terrace. 

Lord  B.    [speaking  ivithout'].    A    noble    falcon!    Marsden, 
hood    him  gently. 

Enter  Lord  Beaufort. 
Good  day,  old  knight,  thou  hast  a  lowering  look, 
As  if  still  ruffled  by  some  dire  affray 
With  lawless  mice,  at  riot  in  thy  larder. 

Sir  O.  Mice  in  my  house!  magnificent  dreamer,  mice! 


SCENE  II]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR 

The  last  was  found  three  years  ago  last  Christmas, 

Stretched  out  beside  a  bone;  so  lean  and  worn 

With  pious  fast — 'twas  piteous  to  behold  it; 

I  canonized  its  corpse  in  spirits  of  wine, 

And  set  it  in  the  porch — a  solemn  warning 

To  its — poor  cousins!     [Aside.]  Shall  I  be  avenged? 

He  killed  my  dog  too. 

Enter  Vyvyan  and  Eveline,  lingering  in  an  alley  in 
the  background. 

Lord  B.  Knight,  look  there! — A  stranger, 

And  whispering  with  my  cousin. 

Sir  O.  \aside].  Jealous?     Ha! 

Something  should  come  of  this:     Hail,  green-eyed  fiend; 
[Aloud.]  Let  us  withdraw — tho'  old  I  have  been  young; 
The  whispered  talk  of  lovers  should  be  sacred. 

Lord  B.   Lovers! 

Sir  G.  Ah!  true!     You  know  not,  in  your  absence 

Your  mother  hath  received  a  welcome  guest 
In  your  fair  cousin's  wooer.     Note  him  well, 
A  stalwart  comely  gallant. 

Lord  B.  Art  thou  serious  ? 

A  wooer  to  my  cousin — quick,  his  name! 

Sir  0.   His  name? — my  memory  doth  begin  to  fail  me — 
Your  mother  will  recall  it.     Seek — ask  her 

Lord  B.    [advancing].    Whom   have   we    here?     Familiar 
sir,  excuse  me, 
I  do  not  see  the  golden  spurs  of  knighthood. 

Vyv.   Alack,  we  sailors  have  not  so  much  gold 
That  we  should  waste  it  on  our  heels!     The  steeds 
We  ride  to  battle  need  no  spurs.  Sir  Landsman ; 

Lord  B.   And  overleap  all  laws;  methinks  thou  art 
One  of  those  wild  Sea  Rovers  who 


230  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  UCT  n 

Yyv.  Refuse 

To  yield  to  Spain's  proud  tyranny,  her  claim 
To  treat  as  thieves  and  pirates  all  who  cross 
The  line  Spain's  finger  draws  across  God's  ocean. 
We,  the  Sea  Rovers,  on  our  wandering  decks 
Carry  our  land,  its  language,  laws  and  freedom; 
We  wrest  from  Spain  the  Sceptre  of  the  seas. 
And  in  the  New  World  build  up  a  new  England. 
For  this  high  task,  if  we  fulfil  it  duly, 
The  Old  and  New  World  both  shall  bless  the  names 
Of  Walter  Raleigh  and  his  bold  Sea  Rovers. 

Lord  B.  Of  those  names  thine  is 

Vyv.  Vyvyan. 

Lord  B.  Master  Vyvyan, 

Our  rank  scarce  fits  us  for  a  fair  encounter 
With  the  loud  talk  of  blustering  mariners. 
We  bar  yo.u  not  our  hospitality; 
Our  converse,  yes.     Gro,  ask  the  Seneschal 
To  lodge  you  with  your  equals! 

Vyv.  Equals,  stripling! 

Mine  equals  truly  should  be  bearded  men, 
Nobles  with  titles  carpet  lords  should  bow  to — 
Memories  of  dangers  dared,  and  service  done. 
And  scars  on  bosoms  that  have  bled  for  England! 

Sir  G.   Nay,  coz,  he  has  thee  there. 

[withholding  Lord  Beaufort.] 
Thou  shalt  not,  Clarence. 
Strike  me.     I'm  weak  and  safe — but  he  is  dangerous. 

Enter  Lady  Montreville  from  the  cloister  as  Lord  Beau- 
fort breaks  from  SiR  Grey  and  draivs  his  siuord. 

Evel.  Protect  your  guest  from  your  rash  son. 


SCENE  II]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  231 

Lady  M.  '         Thy  sword 

Brawn  on  thy Back,  boy!     I  command  thee,  backl 

To  you,  sir  guest,  have  I  in  aught  so  failed, 
That  in  the  son  you  would  rebuke  the  mother? 

Vyv.  Madam,  believe,  my  sole  offence  was  this. 
That  rated  as  a  serf,  I  spoke  as  man. 

Lady   M.     Wherefore,    Lord    Beaufort,    such    unseemly 
humors? 

Lord  B.   [drawing  her  aside].  Wherefore? — and  while  we 
speak,  his  touch  profanes  her! 
Who  is  this  man?     Dost  thou  approve  his  suit? 
Beware! 

Lady  M.  You  would  not  threaten Oh,  my  Clarence, 

Hear  me,  you 

Lord  B.  Learned  in  childhood  from  my  mother 

To  brook  no  rival — and  to  curb  no  passion. 
Aid'st  thou  yon  scatterling  against  thy  son. 
Where  most  his  heart  is  set? 

Lady  M.  Thy  heart,  perverse  one? 

Thou  saidst  it  was  not  love. 

Lord  B.  That  was  before 

A  rival  made  it  love — nay,  fear  not,  mother, 
If  you  dismiss  this  insolent; — but,  mark  me. 
Dismiss  him  straight,  or,  by  mine  honor,  madam, 
Blood  will  be  shed. 

Lady  M.  Thrice  miserable  boy! 

Let  the  heavens  hear  thee  not! 

Lord  B.   \whispering  as  he  passes  Yyvyan].   Again,  and 
soon,  sir!  [^X27  Lord  Beaufort. 

Lady  M.   [seeing  Sir  Grey].   Villain! — but  no,  I  dare  not 

yet  upbraid 

[Aloud.']  After  him,  quick!     Appease,  soothe,  humor  him. 


232  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  n 

/Sir  G.   Ay,  madam,  trust  to  your  poor  cousin. 

[Exit  Sir  Grey. 

Lady  M.  Eveline, 

Thou  lov'st  this  Vyvyan? 

Evel.  Lady — I — lie  saved 

My  life  and  honor. 

Lady  M.  Leave  us,  gentle  child, 

I  would  confer  with  him.     May  both  be  happy! 

Evel.  [to  Vyvyan].  Hush!  she  consents;  well  mayst  thou 
bid  me  love  her.  {Exit  Eveline. 

Lad,y  M.  Sir,  if  I  gather  rightly  from  your  speech. 
You.  do  not  mean  long  sojourn  on  these  shores? 

Vyv.  Lady,  in  sooth,  mine  errand  here  was  twofold. 
First,  to  behold,  and,  if  I  dare  assume 
That  you  will  ratify  her  father's  promise, 
To  claim  my  long  affianced;  next,  to  learn 
If  Heaven  vouchsafe  me  yet  a  parent's  heart. 
I  gained  these  shores  to  hear  of  war  and  danger — 
The  long-suspended  thunderbolt  of  Spain 
Threatened  the  air.     I  have  despatched  an  envoy 
To  mine  old  leader,  Drake,  to  crave  sure  tidings; 
I  wait  reply:  If  England  be  in  peril. 
Hers  my  first  service;  if,  as  rumor  runs, 
The  cloud  already  melts  without  a  storm. 
Then,  my  bride  gained,  and  my  birth  tracked,  I  sail 
Back  to  the  Indian  seas,  where  wild  adventure 
Fulfils  in  life  what  boyhood  dreamed  in  song. 

Lady  M.   'Tis  frankly  spoken — frankly  I  reply. 
First — England's  danger:  Now,  for  five  slow  years 
Have  Spain's  dull  trumpets  blared  their  braggart  war, 
And  Home's  gray  monk-craft  muttered  new  crusades; 
"Well,  we  live  still — and  all  this  deluge  dies 


SCENE  11]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  288 

In  harmless  spray  on  England's  scornful  clilfs. 
And  trust  me,  sir,  if  war  beleaguer  England, 
Small  need  of  one  man's  valor:  lacked  she  soldiers, 
Methinks  a  Mars  would  strike  in  childhood's  arm, 
And  woman  be  Bellona. 

Vyv.  Stately  matron, 

So  would  our  mother  country  speak  and  look, 
Could  she  take  visible  image  1 

Lady  M.  Claim  thy  bride 

With  my  assent,  and  joyous  gratulation. 
She  shall  not  go  undowried  to  your  arms. 
Nor  deem  me  wanting  to  herself  and  you 
If  I  adjure  prompt  nuptials  and  departure. 
Beaufort — thou  see'st  how  fiery  is  his  mood — 
In  my  ward's  lover  would  avenge  a  rival: 
Indulge  the  impatient  terrors  of  a  mother, 
And  quit  these  shores.     Why  not  this  night? 

Vyv.  This  night! 

With  her — my  bride? 

Lady  M.  So  from  the  nuptial  altar. 

Pledge  thou  thy  faith  to  part — to  spread  the  sail 
And  put  wide  seas  between  my  son  and  thee. 

Vyv.  This  night,  with  Eveline! — dream  of  rapture!  yet — 
My  birth  untracked 

Lady  M.  Delay  not  for  a  doubt 

Bliss  when  assured.     And,  heed  me,  I  have  wealth 
To  sharpen  law,  and  power  to  strengthen  justice; 
I  will  explore  the  mazes  of  this  mystery; 
1 — I  will  track  your  parents. 

Vyv.  Blessed  lady; 

My  parents — find  me  one  with  eyes  like  thine, 
And  were  she  lowliest  of  the  hamlet  born, 


234  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  U 

I  would  not  change  with  monarchs. 

Lady  M.   \_aside].  Can  I  bear  this? 

Your  Eveline  wellnigh  is  my  daughter;  you 
Her  plighted  spouse;  pray  you  this  kiss — O,  sweet! 

[He  sinks  on  his  knee  as  she  kisses  his  forehead, 

Vyv.  Ah,  as  I  kneel,  and  as  thou  bendest  o'er  me, 
Methinks  an  angel's  hand  lifts  up  the  veil 
Of  Time,  the  great  magician,  and  I  see 
Above  mine  infant  couch,  a  face  like  thine. 

Lady  M.  Mi  ne,  stranger ! 

Vyv.  Pardon  me;  a  vain  wild  thought 

I  know  it  is;  but  on  my  faith,  I  think 
My  mother  was  like  thee. 

Lady  M.  Peace,  peace!     We  talk 

And  fool  grave  hours  away.     Inform  thy  bride; 
Then  to  thy  bark,  and  bid  thy  crew  prepare; 
Meanwhile,  I  give  due  orders  to  my  chaplain. 
Beside  the  altar  we  shall  meet  once  more: — 
And  then — and  then — Heaven's  blessing  and  farewell! 

{^Exit  Lady  Montreville. 

Vyv.  Most  feeling  heart!  its  softness  hath  contagion, 
And  melts  mine  own.     Her  aspect  wears  a  charm 
That  half  divides  my  soul  with  Eveline's  love? 
Strange!  while  I  muse  a  chill  and  ominous  awe 
Creeps  thro'  my  veins!     Away,  ye  vague  forebodings! 
Eveline!     At  thy  dear  name  the  phantoms  vanish, 
And  the  glad  future  breaks  like  land  on  sea, 
When  rain-mists  melt  beneath  the  golden  morn. 

Enter  Falkner. 
Falk.  Ha!  Vyvyan! 
Vyv.  Thou! 

Falk.         '  Breathless  with  speed  to  reach  thee. 


SCENE  n]  THE    RIGHTFUL   HEIR  235 

I  guessed  thee  lingering  here.     Thy  foster  sire 
Hath  proofs  that  clear  the  shadow  from  thy  birth. 
Go — he  awaits  thee  where  yon  cloud-capt  rock 
Jags  air  with  barbed  peaks — St.  Kinian's  Cliff. 

Vyv.  My  birth !     My  parents  live  ? 

Falk.  I  know  no  more. 

Eiiter  Harding. 

Hard.  Captain,  the  rumor  lied.     I  bring  such  news 
As  drums  and  clarions  and  resounding  anvils 
Fashioning  the  scythes  of  reapers  into  swords, 
Shall  ring  from  Thames  to  Tweed. 

Vyv.  The  foeman  comes! 

Hard,  [giving  letter].  These  lines  will  tell  thee;  Drake's 
own  hand. 

Vyv.  [readiiig].     "The  Armada 
Has  left  the  Groyne,  and  we  are  ranging  battle. 
Come!  in  the  van  I  leave  one  gap  for  thee." 
Poor  Eveline!     Shame  on  such  unworthy  weakness! 

Falk.   [taking  him  aside\.  Time  to  see  her  and  keep  thy 
tryst  with  Alton. 
Leave  me  to  call  the  crew  and  arm  the  decks. 
"Not  till  the  moon  rise  in  the  second  hour 
After  the  sunset,  will  the  deepening  tide 
Float  us  from  harbor — ere  that  hour  be  past 
Our  ship  shall  wait  thee  by  St.  Kinian's  Cliff. 
Small  need  to  pray  thee  not  to  miss  the  moment 
Whose  loss  would  lose  thee  honor. 

Vyv.  If  I  come  not 

Ere  the  waves  reel  to  thy  third  signal  gun. 
Deem  Death  alone  could  so  delay  from  duty, 
And  step  into  my  post  as  o'er  my  corpse. 

Falk.  Justly,  my  captain,  thou  rebuk'st  my  warning, 


236  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC   WORKS  [act  n 

And  couldst  thou  fail  us,  I  would  hold  the  signal 
As  if  thy  funeral  knell — crowd  every  sail, 
And  know  thy  soul — — 

Vyv.  Was  with  my  country  still. 

[Shouts  without 

Enter  Sub-officer,  Sailors,  Retainers,  and  Villagers, 
confusedly. 

Sub-officer,    \with    broadsheet'].    Captain,   look   here.     Just 
come ! 

Vyv.  The  Queen's  Address 

From  her  own  lips  to  the  armed  lines  at  Tilbury. 

Voices.  Read  it,  sir,  read  it. 

Vyv.  '        Hush  then  [reading].  "Loving  people, 

Let  tyrants  fear!     I,  under  Heaven,  have  placed 
In  loyal  hearts  my  chiefest  strength  and  safeguard, 
Being  resolved  in  the  midst  and  heat  of  the  battle 
To  live  and  die  amongst  you  all;  content 
To  lay  down  for  my  God  and  my  people 
Honor  and  life-blood  in  the  dust:  I  know 
I  have  the  body  of  a  feeble  woman, 
But  a  King's  heart,  a  King  of  England's  too; 
And  think  foul  scorn  that  Parma,  Spain,  or  Europe, 
Dare  to  invade  the  borders  of  my  realm! 
Where  England  fights — with  concord  in  the  camp, 
Trust  in  the  chief,  and  valor  m  the  field. 
Swift  be  her  victory  over  every  foe 
Threatening  her  crown,  her  altars  and  her  people." 

The  noble  Woman  King!     These  words  of  fire 

Will  send  warm  blood  through  all  the  veins  of  Freedom 

Till  England  is  a  dream!     Uncover,  lads! 

God  and  St.  George!     Hurrah  for  England's  Queen! 


SCENE  I]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  287 


ACT   III.— SCENE   I. 

St.  Kinian's  Cliff,  a  wild  and  precipitous  headland.  In 
front  the  ground  is  broken  with  crags,  here  and  there  inter- 
spersed with  stunted  brushwood.  The  scene  to  be  so  contrived 
as  to  give  some  notion  of  the  height  of  the  cliff.  Time,  a  little 
before  sunset. 

Alton  and  Vyvyan  seated. 

Alton.   And  I  believed  them  when  they  said  "He  died 
In  the  far  seas."     Ten  years  of  desolate  sorrow- 
Passed  as  one  night — Now  thy  warm  hand  awakes  me. 

Vyv.  Dear  friend,  the  sun  sets  fast. 

Alton.  Alas!  then  listen. 

There  was  a  page,  fair,  gentle,  brave,  but  low-born —    . 
And  in  those  years  when,  to  young  eyes,  the  world, 
With  all  the  rough  disparities  of  fortune. 
Floats  level  thro'  the  morning  haze  of  fancy, 
He  loved  the  heiress  of  a  lordly  house: 
She,  scarce  from  childhood,  listening,  loved  again, 
And  secret  nuptials  hallowed  stolen  meetings — 
Till  one — I  know  not  wliom  (perchance  a  kinsman, 
Heir  to  that  house — if  childless  dieil  its  daughter) — 
Spied — tracked  the  bridegroom  to  the  bridal  bower, 
Aroused  the  sire,  and  said,  "Thy  child's  dishonored!" 
Snatching  his  sword,  the  father  sought  the  chamber: 
Burst  the  closed  portal — but  his  lifted  hand 


238  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  m 

Escaped  the  crime.     Cold  as  a  fallen  statue, 

Cast  from  its  blessed  pedestal  forever, 

The  bride  lay  senseless  on  the  lonely  floor 

By  the  oped  casement,  from  whose  terrible  height 

The  generous  boy,  to  save  her  life  or  honor. 

Had  plunged  into  his  own  sure  death  below. 

Vyv.  A  happy  death,  if  it  saved  her  he  loved ! 

Alton.  A  midnight  grave  concealed  the  mangled  clay, 
And  buried  the  bride's  secret.     Few  nights  after. 
Darkly  as  life  from  him  had  passed  away, 
Life  dawned  on  thee — and,  from  the  unconscious  mother, 
Stern  hands  conveyed  the  pledge  of  fatal  nuptials 
To  the  poor  priest,  who  to  thy  loftier  kindred 
Owed  the  mean  roof  that  sheltered  thee. 

Vj/v.  Oh  say 

I  have  a  mother  still ! 

Alton.  Yes,  she  survived — 

Her  vows,  thy  birth,  by  the  blind  world  unguessed: 
And,  after  years  of  woe  and  vain  resistance, 
Forced  to  a  lordlier  husband's  arms. 

Vyv.  My  soul 

Ofttimes  recalls  a  shadowy  Mournfulness, 
With  woman's  patient  brow,  and  saddest  tears 
Dropped  fast  from  woman's  eyes; — they  were  my  mother's. 

Alton.  In  stealth  a  wife — in  stealth  a  mother!  yes. 
Then  did  she  love  thee,  then  aspired  to  own 
In  coming  times,  and  bade  me  hoard  these  proofs 
For  that  blest  day.     But,  ah!  with  the  new  ties 
Came  new  affections — to  the  second  nuptials 
A  second  son  was  born ;  she  loved  him  better, 
Better  than  thee — than  her  own  soul ! 

Vyv.  Poor  mother! 


SCENE  I]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  239 

Alton.   And  haughtier  thoughts  oq  riper  life  arose, 
And  worldly  greatness  feared  the  world's  dread  shame, 
And  she  forsook  her  visits  to  thy  pillow, 
And  the  sire  threatened  and  the  kinsman  prayed, 
Till,  over-urged  by  terror  for  thy  safety, 
I  took  reluctant  vows  to  mask  the  truth, 
And  hush  thy  rights  while  lived  thy  mother's  sire, 
And  he,  her  second  unsuspecting  lord. 
Thus  thy  youth,  nameless,  left  my  lonely  roof. 
The  sire  and  husband  died  while  thou  wert  absent. 
Thou  liv'st — thou  hast  returned;  mine  oath  is  freed; 
These  scrolls  attest  my  tale  and  prove  thy  birthright — 
Hail,  Lord  of  Beaufort — Heir  of  Montreville! 

Vyv.   'Tis  she — 'tis  she!     At  the  first  glance  I  loved  her! 
And  when  1  told  my  woes,  she  wept — she  wept! 
This  is*  her  writing.     Look — look  where  she  calls  me 
"Edmond  and  child."     Old  man,  how  thou  hast  wronged 

her ! 
Joy — joy!     I  fly  to  claim  and  find  a  Mother! 

[Exit  Vyvyan. 

Alton.  Just  Power,  propitiate  Nature  to  that  cry. 
And  from  the  hardened  rock,  let  living  streams 
Gush  as  in  Horeb!     Ah,  how  faintly  flags, 
Strained  by  unwonted  action,  weary  age! 
I'll  seek  the  neighboring  hamlet — rest  and  pray. 

[Exit  Alton. 


240  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ra 


SCENE  II. 

The  exterior  of  the  castle^  as  in  Scene  II.,  Act  II.     Sunset. 

The  twilight  creeps  on  during  the  scene. 

Enter  Sir  Grey  and  Wrecklyffe. 

Sir  G.  The  priest  had  left  his  home? 

^Yrech.  The  hour  I  reached  it. 

Sir  G.  With  but  one  man  ?     Didst  thou  not  hound  the 
foot-track  ? 

Wreck.   I  did. 

Sir  G.  Thou  didst — and  yet  the  prey  escaped! 

I  have  done:  I  gave  thee  thy  soul's  wish,  revenge, 
Revenge  on  Vyvyan — and  thou  leav'st  his  way 
Clear  to  a  height  as  high  from  thy  revenge 
As  is  yon  watch-tower  from  a  pirate's  gibbet. 

Wreck.  Silence!  thou 

Sir  G.  \haughtily].  Sir! 

Wreck,   [subdued  and  cowed].  Along  the  moors  I  track'd 
them, 
But  only  came  in  sight  and  reach  of  spring 
Just  as  they  gained  the  broad  and  thronging  road, 
Aloud  with  eager  strides,  and  clamorous  voices — 
A  surge  of  tumult,  wave  to  wave  rebooming 
How  all  the  might  of  Parma  and  of  Spain 
Hurried  its  thunders  on. 

Sir  G.  Dolt,  what  to  us 

Parma  and  Spain  ?     The  beggar  has  no  country! 

Wreck.  But  deeds  like  that  which  thou  dost  urge  me  to 


SCENE  n]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  241 

Are  not  risked  madly  in  the  populous  day. 
I  come  to  thy  sharp  wit  for  safer  orders. 

iSir  G.  My  wit  is  dulled  by  time,  and  must  be  groand 
Into  an  edge  by  thought.     Hist ! — the  door  jars, 
She  comes.     Skulk  yonder — hide  thee — but  in  call! 
A  moment  sometimes  makes  or  marreth  fortune. 
Just  as  the  fiend  Occasion  springs  to  hand — 
Be  thou  that  fiend ! 

[Wrecklypfe  passes  among  the  trees^  and  exit. 

Enter  Lady  Montreville  from  the  cloister. 

Lady  M.  Look  on  me!     What,  nor  tremble? 

Couldst  thou  have  deemed  my  father's  gold  a  bribe 
For  my  son's  murder?     Sold  to  pirates!     Cast 
On  the  wild  seas! 

Sir  Q.  How !     I  knew  naught  of  this. 

If  such  the  truth,  peace  to  thy  father's  sins, 
For  of  those  sins  is  this.     Let  the  past  sleep, 
Meet  present  ills — the  priest  hath  left  his  home 
With  Vyvyan's  comrade,  and  our  scheme  is  foiled. 

Lady  M.  I  will,  myself,  see  Alton  on  the  morrow — 
Edmond  can  scarce  forestall  me;  for  this  night 
Fear  sails  with  him  to  the  far  Indian  main. 

Sir  G.  Let  me  do  homage  to  thy  genius.     Sorceress, 
What  was  thy  magic  ? 

Lady  M.  Terror  for  my  Clarence, 

And  Edmond's  love  for  Eveline. 

Sir  G.  [aside],                                  I  see! 
Bribed  by  the  price  of  which  she  robs  his  rival ! — 
This  night — so  soon? — this  night 

Lady  M.  I  save  my  Clarence! 

Till  then,  keep  close,  close  to  his  side.     Thou  hast  soothed 

him? 
Bulwer,  Vol.  XXX  ^  »K 


242  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  m 

Sir  Q.       Fear  not — these  sudden  tidings  of  the  foe 
With  larger  fires  have  paled  receding  love — 
But  where  is  Vyvyan? 

Lady  M.  Doubtless  with  his  crew, 

Preparing  for  departure. 

Lord  B.  [without].  This  way,  Marsden. 

Enter  LoRD  Beaufort  with  Marsden  and  armed 

Attendants. 

Lord  B.  Repair  yon  broken  parapets  at  dawn ; 
Yonder  the  culverins! — delve  down  more  sharply 
That  bank; — clear  out  the  moat.     Those  trees — eh,  Mars- 
den,— 
Should  fall?     They'd  serve  to  screen  the  foe!     Ah,  mother, 
Make  a  scarf  to  wear  above  the  armor 
In  which  thy  father,  'mid  the  shouts  of  kings. 
Shivered  French  lances  at  the  Cloth  of  Gold. 

Mars.  Nay,  my  young  lord,  too  vast  for  you  that  armor. 

Lord  B.  No;  you  forget  that  the  breast  swells  in  danger, 
And  honor  adds  a  cubit  to  the  stature. 

Lady  M.  Embrace  me,  Clarence,  I  myself  will  arm  thee. 
Look  at  him,"  Marsden — yet  they  say  I  spoil  him! 

Sir    G.    [who   has   been  leaning  over  the   low  parapet^    ad- 
vances, draws  aside  Lady  Montreville  and  whispers. 
I  mark  i'  the  distance,  swift  disordered  strides, 
And  the  light  bound  of  an  impatient  spirit; 
Vyvyan  speeds  hither,  and  the  speed  seems  joy. 
He  sought  his  crew — Alton  might  there  await  him. 

Lady  M.   His  speed  is  to  a  bride. 

Sir  G.  Ay,  true — old  age 

Forgets  that  Love's  as  eager  as  Ambition; 
Yet  hold  thyself  prepared. 


SCENE  n]  THE   RIGHTFUL    HEIR  248 

Lady  M.  \to  herself].  And  if  it  were  so! 

Come,  I  will  sound  the  depths  of  Beaufort's  heart; 
And,  as  that  answers,  hush  or  yield  to  conscience. 
Lead  off  these  men.         [_Exeunt  Sir  Grey  and  Attendants. 
\^To  Marsden.]  Go,  meet  my  this  day's  guest, 

And  see  he  enter  through  the  garden  postern. 

[Exit  Marsden. 
Clarence,  come  back. 

Lord  B.  \j)eevishly].  What  now? 

Lady  M.  Speak  kindly,  Clarence. 

Alas,  thou'lt  know  not  till  the  grave  close  o'er  me 
How  I  did  need  thy  kindness ! 

Lord  B.  Pardon,  mother. 

My  blunt  speech  now,  and  froward  heat  this  morning. 

Lady  M.  Be  all  such  follies  of  the  past,  as  leaves 
Shed  from  the  petals  of  the  bursting  flower. 
Think  thy  soul  slept,  till  honor's  sudden  dawn 
Flashed,  and  the  soil  bloomed  with  one  more  hero  I 
Ah,  Clarence,  had  I,  too,  an  elder-born. 
As  had  thy  father  by  his  former  nuptials! — 
Could  thy  sword  carve  out  fortune? 

Lord  B.  Ay,  my  mother! 

Lady  M.  Well  the  bold  answer  rushes  from  thy  lipsl 
Yet,  tell  me  frankly,  dost  thou  not,  in  truth. 
Prize  overmuch  the  outward  show  of  things; 
And  couldst  thou — rich  with  valor,  health  and  beauty, 
And  hope — the  priceless  treasure  of  the  young — 
Couldst  thou  endure  descent  from  that  vain  height 
Where  pride  builds  towers  the  heart  inhabits  not; 
To  live  less  gorgeously,  and  curb  thy  wants 
Within  the  state,  not  of  the  heir  to  earls, 
But  of  a  simple  gentleman? 


244  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  m 

Lord  B.  If  reared  to  it, 

Perchance  contented  so;  but  now — no,  never! 
Such  as  I  am,  thy  lofty  self  hath  made  me; 
Ambitious,  haughty,  prodigal;  and  pomp 
A  part  of  my  very  life.     If  I  could  fall 
From  my  high  state,  it  were  as  Romans  fell, 
On  their  swords'  point!     Why  is  your  cheek  so  hueless? 
Why  daunt  yourself  with  airiest  fantasies? 
Who  can  deprive  me  of  mine  heritage — 
The  titles  borne  at  Palestine  and  Crecy, 
The  seigniory,  ancient  as  the  throne  it  guards, 
That  will  be  mine  in  trust  for  sons  unborn, 
When  time — from  this  day  may  the  date  be  far ! — 
Transfers  the  circlet  on  tby  stately  brows 
(Forgive  the  boast!)  to  no  unworthy  heir? 

Lady  M.   \aside\.  My  proud  soul  speaks  in  his,  and  stills 
remorse ; 
I'll  know  no  other  son!     Now  go,  Lord  Beaufort. 

Lord  B.  So  formal — fie! — has  Clarence  then  offended? 

Lady  M.  Offended? — thou!     Eesume  tby  noble  duties. 
Sole  heir  of  Montreville!  [Exii  Lord  Beaufort. 

My  choice  is  made. 
As  one  who  holds  a  fortress  for  his  king, 
I  guard  this  heart  for  Clarence,  and  I  close 
Its  gates  against  the  stranger.     Let  him  come.  [ExiL 

Miter  Vyvyan    and    EVELINE.      Twilight,    hut    still    clear; 
a  few  stars  come  out  gradually. 

Evel.  I  would  not  bid  thee  stay,  thy  country  calls  thee — 
But  thou  hast  stunned  my  heart  i'  the  midst  of  joy 
With  this  dread  sudden  word — part — part! 

Vyv.  Live  not 


SCENE  n]  THE   RIGHTFUL   HEIR  245 

In  the  brief  present.     Go  forth  to  the  future  I 
Wouldst  thou  not  see  me  worthier  of  thy  love? 

Evel.  Thou  canst  not  be  so. 

Vyv.  Sweet  one,  I  am  now 

Obscure  and  nameless.     What,  if  at  thy  feet 
I  could  lay  rank  and  fortune  ? 

Evel.  These  could  give 

To  me  no  bliss  save  as  they  blest  thyself. 
Into  the  life  of  him  she  loves,  the  life 
Of  woman  flows,  and  nevermore  reflects 
Sunshine  or  shadow  on  a  separate  wave. 
Be  his  lot  great,  for  his  sake  she  loves  greatness; 
Humble — a  cot  with  him  is  Arcady ! 
Thou  art  ambitious;  thou  wouldst  arm  for  fame, 
Fame  then  fires  me  too,  and  without  a  tear, 
I  bid  thee  go  where  fame  is  won — as  now; 
Win  it  and  I  rejoice;  but  fail  to  win. 
Were  it  not  joy  to  think  1  could  console? 

Vyv.  Oh,  that  I  could  give  vent  to  this  full  heart  I 
Time  rushes  on,  each  glimmering  star  rebukes  me — 
Is  that  the  Countess  yonder?     This  way — come. 

[Retire  up  the  stage. 

Enter  Lord  Beaufort  and  Sir  Grey. 

Lord  B.  Leave  England,  say'st  thou — and  with  her? 

Sir  O.  Thou  hast  wrung 

The  secret  from  me.     Mark — I  have  thy  promise 
Not  to  betray  me  to  thy  mother. 

Lord  B.  Ah! 

Thought  she  to  dupe  me  with  that  pomp  of  words, 
And  blind  ambition  while  she  beggared  life? 
No,  by  yon  heavens,  she  shall  not  so  befool  me  I 


246  BULWER'S   DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  m 

Sir  G.  Be  patient.     Had  I  guessed  how  this  had  galled, 
I  had  been  dumb. 

Lord  B.  Stand  from  the  light!     Distraction  I 

She  hangs  upon  his  breast! 

[^Hurries  to  VyvyaN",  and  then,  uncovering  with  an  at- 
teinpt  at  courtesy,  draws  him  to  the  front  of  the  stage. 
[Wrecklyffe,  who,  at  the  first  entrance  of  Vyvyan, 
has  looked  forth  and  glided  after  him,  as  if  not  to 
lose  sight  of  his  revenge,  now  creeps  through  the  foli- 
age, within  hearing. 
Lord  B.  Sir,  one  word  with  you. 

This  day  such  looks  and  converse  passed  between  us 
As  men  who  wear  these  vouchers  for  esteem 
Cancel  with  deeds. 

Yyv.   [aside'].  The  brave  boy!     How  I  love  him! 

Lord  B.  What  saidst  thou,  sir? 
Evel.   [approaching'].  Oh,  Clarence. 

Lord  B.  Fear  not,  cousin. 

I  do  but  make  excuses  for  my  rudeness 
At  noon,  to  this  fair  cavalier. 

Sir  G.  If  so, 

Let  us  not  mar  such  courteous  purpose,  lady. 
JEvel.  But— 
Sir  G.  Nay,  you  are  too  timid! 

[Draivs  Eveline  away. 
Lord  B.  Be  we  brief,  sir. 

You  quit  these  parts  to-night.     This  place  beseems  not 
The  only  conference  we  should  hold.     I  pray  you 
Name  spot  and  hour  in  which  to  meet  again. 
Unwitnessed  save  by  the  broad  early  moon. 
Vyv.  Meet  thee  again — oh,  yes! 
Lord  B.  There  speaks  a  soldier, 


SCENE  III  *      THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  247 

And  now  I  own  an  equal.     Hour  and  place? 

Vyv.  Wait  here  till  1  have — 

Lord  B.  No,  sir,  on  thy  road. 
Here  we  are  spied. 

Vyv.  So  be  it,  on  my  road. 

[Aside.    There  where  I  learned  that  Heaven  had  given   a 

brother, 
There  the  embrace.]     Within  the  hour  I  pass 
St.  Kinian's  Cliff. 

Lord  B.  Alone? 

Vyv.  Alone. 

Lord  B.  Farewell! 

Sir  O.  [catching  at  LoRD  Beaufort  as  he  goes  out].     I 
heard  St.  Kinian's  Cliff.     I'll  warn  the  Countess. 

Lord  B.  Do  it,  and  famish ! 

Sir  G.  Well,  thy  fence  is  skilful. 

Lord  B.   And  my  hand  firm. 

Sir  a.  But  when? 

Lord  B.  Within  the  hour ! 

[Exit  Lord  Beaufort. 

Evel.  I  do  conjure  thee  on  thine  honor,  Yyvyan, 
Hath  he  not 

Vyv.  What? 

Evel.  Forced  quarrel  on  thee? 

Vyv.  Quarrel  I 

That  were  beyond  his  power.     Upon  mine  honor, 
No,  and  thrice  no! 

Evel.  1  scarce  dare  yet  believe  thee. 

Vyv.  Why  then,  I  thus  defy  thee  still  to  tremble. 
Away  this  weapon!    [throwing  down  his  sword}.  If  I  meet 

thy  cousin 
Both  must  be  safe,  for  one  will  be  unarmed. 


248  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  m 

Evel.  Mine  own  frank  hero-lover,  pardon  me; 
Yet  need'st  thou  not 

Vyv.  Oh,  as  against  the  Spaniard, 

There  will  be  swords  enow  in  Vyvyan's  war-ship— 
But  art  thou  sure  his  heart  is  touched  so  lightly? 

Evel.  Jealous,  and  now! 

Vyv.  No,  the  fair  boy,  'tis  pity  I 

Enter  Marsden. 

Mars.  My  lady,  sir,  invites  you  to  her  presence; 
Pray  you,  this  way. 

Evel.  Remember — Oh!  remember. 

One  word  again,  before  we  part;  but  one! 

Vyv.  One  word.     Heaven  make  it  joyous. 

Evel.  Joyous! 

Vyv.  Soft,  let  me  take  that  echo  from  thy  lips 
As  a  good  omen.     How  my  loud  heart  beats !  [aside\. 
Friend,  to  your  lady. 

[Exeunt  Vyvyan  and  Marsden  within  the  castle, 

Evel.  Gone!     The  twilight  world 

Hath  its  stars  still — but  mine  I     Ah,  woe  is  me  I 

[Exit  BVELINS- 

Sir  G.   Why  take  the  challenge,  yet  cast  off  the  weapon? 
Perchance,  if  gentle,  he  forbears  the  boy; 
Perchance,  if  worldly  wise,  he  fears  the  noble; 
Or  hath  he,  in  Ris  absence,  chanced  with  Alton? 
It  matters  not.     Like  some  dark  necromancer 
I  raise  the  storm,  then  rule  it  thro'  the  fiend! 
Where  waits  this  man  without  a  hope? 

Wreck,  [advancing].  Save  vengeance! 

Sir  0.  Wert  thou  not  as  near  when  Beaufort  spoke  with 
Vyvyan? 


SCENE  n]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  240 

Wreck.  Shall  I  repeat  what  Yyvyan  said  to  Beaufort? 

Sir  G.  Thou  know'st 

Wreck.  I  know,  that  to  St.  Kinian's  Cliff 

Will  come  the  man  whose  hand  wrote  "felon"  here. 

Sir  O.  Mark,  what  1  ask  is  harder  than  to  strike; 
'Tis  to  forbear — but  'tis  revenge  with  safety. 
Let  Vy vyan  first  meet  Beaufort ;  watch  what  pass, 
And  if  the  boy,  whose  hand  obeys  all  passion, 
Should  slay  thy  foeman,  and  forestall  thy  vengeance, 
Upon  thy  life  (thou  know'st,  of  old,  Grrey  Malpas) 
Prevent  not,  nor  assist. 

Wreck.  That  boy  slay  V"yvyan! 

Sir  G.   For  Vyvyan  is  unarmed. 

Wreck.  Law  calls  that — murder! 

Sir  G.  Which  by  thy  witness,  not  unbacked  by  proof, 
Would  give  the  murderer  to  the  headsman's  axe, 
And  leave  Grey  Malpas  heir  of  Montreville, 
And  thee  the  richest  squire  in  all  his  train. 

Wreck.  I  do  conceive  the  scheme.     But  if  the  youth 
Fail  or  relent 

Sir  G.  I  balk  not  thy  revenge. 

And,  if  the  corpse  of  Beaufort's  rival  be 
Found  on  the  spot  where  armed  Beaufort  met  him. 
To  whom  would  justice  track  the  death  blow? — Beaufort! 

Wreck.  No  further  words.     Or  his,  or  mine  the  hand, 
Count  one  life  less  on  earth;  and  weave  thy  schemes — 
As  doth  the  worm  its  coils — around  the  dead. 

[Exit  Wrecklyffe. 

Sir  G.  One  death  avails  as  three,  since  for  the  mother 
Conscience  and  shame  were  sharper  than  the  steel. 
So,  I  o'erleap  the  gulf,  nor  gaze  below. 
On  this  side,  desolate  ruin;  bread  begrudged; 


250  BULWEE'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [aC3T  ni 

And  ribald  scorn  on  impotent  gray  hairs; 

The  base  poor  cousin  Boyhood  threats  with  famin©— 

Whose  very  dog  is  butchered  if  it  bark: — 

On  that  side  bended  knees  and  fawning  smiles, 

Ho!  ho!  there — Boom  for  my  Lord's  knights  and  pages! 

Koom  at  the  Court — room  there,  beside  the  throne! 

Ah,  the  new  Earl  of  Montreville!     His  lands 

Cover  two  shires.     Such  men  should  rule  the  state — 

A  gracious  lord — the  envious  call  him  old; 

Not  so — the  coronet  conceals  gray  hairs. 

He  limp'd,  they  say,  when  he  wore  hose  of  serge. 

Tut,  the  slow  march  becomes  the  robes  of  ermine. 

Back,  Conscience,  back!     Go  scowl  on  boors  and  beggars — 

Eoom,  smiling  flatterers,  room  for  the  new  Earl ! 

[Mcit  Sir  Grey. 


SCENE  I]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEHl  251 


ACT   17.— SCENE  I. 

Lady  Montreville's  ayartment  as  in  Scene  I.,  Act  11. 
Lights.  During  the  scene  the  moon  rises,  seen  through  the 
casement.     Lady  Montreville  seated. 

Enter  Vyvyan. 

Lady  M.  Thou  com'st  already  to  demand  thy  bride? 

Vyv.   Alas!  such  nuptials  are  deferred.     This  night 
The  invader  summons  me — my  sole  bride,  Honor, 
And  my  sole  altar — England!     [Aside.l  How  to  break  it? 

Lady  M.   My  Clarence  on  the  land,  and  thou  on  sea. 
Both  for  their  country  armed!     Heaven  shield  ye  both! 

Vyv.    Say  thou  that? — Both? — You,   who   so    love  your 
son? 

Lady  M.  Better  than  life,  I  love  him ! 

Yyv.  \aside\.  I  must  rush 

Into  the  thick.     Time  goads  me!     [Aloud.]  Had  you  not 
Another  son?     A  first-born? 

Lady  M.  Sir! 

Vyv.  A  son, 

On  whom  those  eyes  dwelt  first — whose  infant  cry 
Broke  first  on  that  divine  and  holiest  chord 
In  the  deep  heart  of  woman,  which  awakes 
All  Nature's  tenderest  music?     Turn  not  from  me  I 
I  know  the  mystery  of  thy  mournful  life. 


252  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  IV 

"Will  it  displease  thee — will  it — to  believe 
That  son  is  living  still? 

Lady  M.  Sir — sir — such  license 

Expels  your  listener  \rises\. 

Yyv.  No,  thou  wilt  not  leave  me! 

I  say,  thou  wilt  not  leave  me — on  my  knees 
I  say,  thou  shall  not  leave  me! 

Lady  M.  Loose  thine  hold! 

Yyv.  1  am  thy  son — thine  Edmond — thine  own  child 
Saved  from  the  steel,  the  deep,  the  storm,  the  battle; 
Eising  from  death  to  thee — the  source  of  life! 
Flung  by  kind  Heaven  once  more  upon  thy  breast, 
Kissing  thy  robe,  and  clinging  to  thy  knees. 
Dost  thou  reject  thy  son? 

Lady  M.  I  have  no  son, 

Save  Clarence  Beaufort. 

Yyv.  Do  not — do  not  hear  her, 

Thou  who,  enthroned  amid  the  pomp  of  stars. 
Dost  take  no  holier  name  than  that  of  Father! 
Thou  hast  no  other  son?     O,  cruel  one! 
Look — look — these  letters  to  the  priest  who  reared  him — 
See  where   thou    call'st  him  "Edmond"— "child"— "life's 

all!"— 
Can  the  words  be  so  fresh  on  this  frail  record, 
Yet  fade,  obliterate  from  the  undying  soul? 
By  these — by  these—by  all  the  solemn  past, 
By  thy  youth's  lover — by  his  secret  grave — 
By  every  kiss  upon  thine  infant's  cheek — 
By  every  tear  that  wept  his  fancied  death — 
Grieve  not  that  still  a  first-born  calls  thee  "Mother!" 

Lady  M.  Rise.     If  these  prove  that  such  a  son  once  lived. 
Where  are  your  proofs  that  still  he  lives  in  you? 


SCENE  I]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR 

Vyv.  There!  in  thine   heart  1 — thine  ejes  that  dare  not 

face  me  I 
Thy  trembling  limbs,  each  power,  each  pulse  of  being, 
That  vibrates  at  my  voice!     Let  pride  incase  thee 
With  ninefold  adamant,  it  rends  asunder 
At  the  great  spell  of  Nature — Nature  calls; 
Parent,  come  forth! 

Lady  M.  [aside].     Resolve  gives  way !     Lost  Clarence! 
What!  "Fall  as  Romans  fell,  on  their  swords'  point?" 
No,  Clarence,  no!  [turning  fiercely'].    Impostor!    If  thy  craft 
Hath,  by  suborning  most  unworthy  spies, 
Sought  in  the  ruins  of  a  mourner's  life 
Some  base  whereon  to  pile  this  labored  falsehood. 
Let  law  laugh  down  the  fable — Quit  my  presence. 

Vyv.  No.     I  will  not. 

Lady  M.  Will  not!     Ho! 

Vyv.  Call  your  hirelings, 

And  let  them  hear  me  [striding  to  the  hearth].     Lo,  beneath 

thy  roof, 
And  on  the  sacred  hearth  of  sires  to  both. 
Under  their  'scutcheon,  and  before  their  forms 
Which  from  the  ghostly  canvas  I  invoke 
To  hail  their  son — I  take  my  dauntless  stand, 
Armed  with  my  rights;  now  bid  your  menials  thrust 
From  his  own  hearth  the  heir  of  Montreville! 

Enter  Servants. 

Lady  M.  Seize  on [Clasping  her  hands  before  her  face]. 

Out — out!     His  father  stands  before  me 
In  the  son's  image.     No,  I  dare  not! 

Servant.  Madam, 

Did  you  not  summon  us  ? 


254.  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  IV 

Yyv.  They  wait  your  mandate, 

Lady  of  Montreville. 

Lady  M.  I  called  not,  Go ! 

[^Eoceunt  Servants. 
Art  thou  my  son?     If  so,  have  mercy,  Edmondl 
Let  Heaven  attest  with  what  remorseful  soul 
I  yielded  to  my  ruthless  father's  will. 
And  with  cold  lips  profaned  a  second  vow. 
1  had  a  child — I  was  a  parent,  true; 
But  exiled  from  the  parent's  paradise, 
Not  mine  the  frank  joy  in  the  face  of  day, 
The  pride,  the  boast,  the  triumph,  and  the  rapture; 
Thy  couch  was  sought  as  with  a  felon's  step. 
And  whispering  nature  shuddered  at  detection. 
Oh,  could'st  thou  guess  what  hell  to  the  loftier  minds 
It  is  to  live  in  one  eternal  lie! 
Yet,  spite  of  all,  how  dear  thou  wertt 

Vyv.  I  was? 

Is  the  time  past  forever?     What  my  sin? 

Lady  M.  I  loved  thee  till  another  son  was  born, 
A  blossom  'mid  the  snows.     Thou  wert  afar. 
Seen  rarely — alien — on  a  stranger's  breast 
Leaning  for  life.     But  this  thrice-blessed  one 
Smiled  in  mine  eyes,  took  being  from  my  breast. 
Slept  in  mine  arms;  here  love  asked  no  concealment — 
Here  the  tear  shamed  not— here  the  kiss  was  glory — 
Here  1  put  on  my  royalty  of  woman — 
The  guardian,  the  protector:  food,  health,  life — 
It  clung  to  me  for  all.     Mother  and  child. 
Each  was  the  all  to  each. 

Vyv.  Oh,  prodigal. 

Such  wealth  to  him,  yet  naught  to  spare  to  me  I 


SCENE  I]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  265 

Lady  M.    My  boy  grew  up,  my  Clarence.     Looking  on 
him 
Men  prized  his  mother  more — so  fair  and  gracious, 
And  the  world  deemed  to  such  high  state  the  heir  I 
Years  went;  they  told  me  that  by  Nature's  death 
Thou  hadst  in  boyhood  passed  away  to  heaven. 
I  wept  thy  fate ;  and  long  ere  tears  were  dried, 
The  thought  that  danger,  too,  expired  for  Clarence, 
Did  make  thy  memory  gentle. 

Vyv.  Do  you  wish 

That  I  were  still  what  once  you  wept  to  deem  me  ? 

Lady  M.  I  did  rejoice  when  my  lip  kissed  thy  brow; 
I  did  rejoice  to  give  thy  heart  its  bride; 
I  would  have  drained  my  coffers  for  her  dowry; 
But  wouldst  thou  ask  me  if  I  can  rejoice 
That  a  life  rises  from  the  grave  abrupt 
To  doom  the  life  I  cradled,  reared  and  wrapt 
From  every  breeze>  to  desolation  ? — No  I 

Vyv.  What  would  you  have  me  do? 

Lady  M.  Accept  the  dowry, 

And,  blest  with  Eveline's  love,  renounce  thy  mother. 

Vyv.  Eenounce  theel     No — ^^ese  lips  belie  not  Nature! 
Never! 

Lady  M.  Eno' — I  can  be  mean  no  more, 
Ev'n  in  the  prayer  that  asked  his  life.     Go,  slay  it. 

Vyv.  Why  must  my  life  slay  his? 

Lady  M.  Since  his  was  shaped 

To  soar  to  power — not  grovel  to  dependence — 
And  I  do  seal  his  death-writ  when  1  say, 
"Down  to  the  dust,  Usurper;  bow  the  knee 
And  sue  for  alms  to  the  true  Lord  of  Beaufort." 
Those  words  shall  not  be  said — I'll  find  some  nobler. 


256  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  rv 

Thy  rights  are  clear.     The  law  might  long  defer  them — 

I  do  forestall  the  law.     These  lands  be  thine. 

Wait  not  my  death  to  lord  it  in  my  hall: 

Thus  I  say  not  to  Clarence,  "Be  dependent" — 

But  I  can  say,  "Share  poverty  with  me." 

I  go  to  seek  him;  at  his  side  depart; 

He   spurns   thine   alms: — I   wronged    thee — take  thy   ven 
geance ! 
Vyv.  Merciless  —  hold,  and    hear   me  —  I  —  alms!  —  ven- 
geance!— 

True— true,  this  heart  a  mother  never  cradled, 

Or  she  had  known  it  better. 

Lady  M.  Edmond ! 

Vyv.  Hushl 

Call  me  that  name  no  more — it  dies  forever! 

Nay,  I  renounce  thee  not,  for  that  were  treason 

On  the  child's  lip.     Parent,  renounce  thy  child  1 

As  for  these  nothings  \giving  the  papers],  take  them;  if  you 
dread 

To  find  words,  once  too  fond,  they're  blurr'd  already — 

You'll  see  but  tears:  tears  of  such  sweetness,  madam. 

I  did  not  think  of  lands  and  halls,  pale  Countess, 

I  did  but  think — these  arms  shall  clasp  a  mother. 

Now  they  are  worthless — take  them.     Never  guess 

How  covetous  I  was — how  hearts,  cast  off, 

Pine  for  their  rights — rights  not  a  parchment,  lady. 

Part  we,  then,  thus?     No,  put  thine  arms  around  me; 

Let  me  remember  in  the  years  to  come 

That  I  have  lived  to  say,  a  mother  blessed  me! 

Lady  M.  Oh,  Edmond,   Edmond,   thou  hast  conquered, 
Edmond! 

Thy  father's  voice! — his  eyes!     Look  down  from  heaven, 


SCENE  I]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  267 

Bridegroom,  and  pardon  me;  I  bless  thy  child! 

Yyv.    Hark!    she   has   blessed   her  son!     It  mounts  to 
heaven, 
The  blessing  of  the  mother  on  her  child! 
Mother,  and  mother; — how  the  word  thrills  thro'  me! 
Mother,  again  dear  mother!     Place  thy  hand 
Here — on  my  heart.     Now  thou  hast  felt  it  beat. 
Wilt  thou  misjudge  it  more?     Kecoil'st  thou  still? 

Lady  M.    [breaking  from  him].  What  have  I  done? — be- 
trayed, condemned  my  Clarence! 
Vyv.  Condemned  thy  Clarence!     By  thy  blessing,  No! 
That  blessing  was  my  birthright.     I  have  won 
That  which  I  claimed.     Give  Clarence  all  the  rest. 
Silent,  as  sacred,  be  the  memory 
Of  this  atoning  hour.     Look,  evermore  [kissing  her"] 
Thus — thus  I  seal  the  secret  of  thy  first-born! 
Now,  only  Clarence  lives!     Heaven  guard  thy  Clarence! 
Now  deem  me  dead  to  thee.     Farewell,  farewell  I 

[Exit  Vyvyan. 
Lady  M.   [rushing  after  him].  Hold,   hold — too  generous, 
hold !     Come  back,  my  son ! 

[Exit  Lady  Montreville. 


SCENE   II. 

St.  Kinian^s  Cliff.      The  ship  on  the  sea.     Wrecklyffe 
standing  in  the  shadoiu  of  a  broken  rock. 

Enter  Lord  Beaufort. 
Lord  B.  And  still  not  here!     The  hour  hao  long  since 
passed. 
I'll  climb  yon  tallest  peak,  and  strain  mine  eyes 


268  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  IV 

l)own  the  sole  path  between  the  cliff  and  ocean. 

[Uxit  Lord  Beaufort. 
Wreck,  [advancing'].  The  boors  first  grinned,  then  paled, 
and  crept  away ; 
The  tavern-keeper  slunk,  and  muttered  "Hangdog!" 
And  the  she- drudge  whose  rough  hand  served  the  drink, 
Stifled  her  shriek,  and  let  the  tankard  fall! 
It  was  not  so  in  the  old  merry  days: 
Then  the  scarred  hangdog  was  "fair  gentleman." 
And — but  the  reckoning  waits.     Why  tarries  he? 

[Signal  gun  from  the  ship. 
A  signal!     Ha! 

Vyv.  [ivithout].  1  come!     I  come! 

Wreck,   [grasping  his  knife,  but  receding  as  he  sees  BEAU- 
FORT, who  appears  above']. 

Hot  lordling! 
I  had  wellnigh  forestalled  thee.     Patience! 

[Creeps  under  the  shadoiu  of  the  rock,  and  thence  steals  out 
of  sight  in  the  background. 

Enter  Lord  Beaufort. 
Lord  B.  Good! 

From  crag  to  crag  he  bounds — my  doubts  belied  him; 
His  haste  is  eager  as  my  own. 

Enter  Yyvyan. 

Sir,  welcome. 
Vyv.  Stay  me  not,  stay  me  not!     Thou  hast  all  else 
But  honor — rob  me  not  of  that!     Unhand  me! 

Lord  B.  Unhand  thee?  yes — to  take  thy  ground  and  draw. 
Vyv.  Thou  know'st  not  what  thou  sayest.     Let  me  go! 
Lord  B.   Thyself  didst  name  the  place  and  hour! 


SCENE  nj  THE   RIGHTFUL   HEIR  259 

Vyv.  For  here 

1  thought  to  clasp — [aside]  I  have  no  brother  now! 

Lord  B.   He  thought  to  clasp   his  Eveline.     Death  and 
madness! 

Vyv.  Eveline!     Thou  lov'st  not  Eveline.     Be  consoled. 
Thou  hast  not  known  affliction — hast  not  stood 
Without  the  porch  of  the  sweet  home  of  men; 
Thou  hast  leaned  upon  no  reed  that  pierced  the  heart; 
Thou  hast  not  known  what  it  is,  when  in  the  desert 
The  hopeless  find  the  fountain:  happy  boy, 
Thou  hast  not  loved.     Leave  love  to  man  and  sorrow! 

Lord  B.  Dost  thou  presume  upon  my  years?    Dull  sco£Eer! 
The  brave  is  man  betimes — the  coward  never. 
Boy  if  I  be,  my  playmates  have  been  veterans; 
My  toy  a  sword,  and  my  first  lesson  valor. 
And,  had  I  taken  challenge  as  thou  hast, 
And  on  the  ground  replied  to  bold  defiance 
With  random  words  implying  dastard  taunts, 
With  folded  arms,  pale  lip,  and  haggard  brow, 
I'd  never  live  to  call  myself  a  man. 
Thus  says  the  boy,  since  manhood  is  so  sluggard, 
Soldier  and  captain.     Do  not  let  me  strike  thee! 

Vyv.  Do  it, — and  tell  thy  mother,  when  thy  hand 
Outraged  my  cheek,  I  pardoned  thee,  and  pitied. 

Lord  B.  Measureless  insult!     Pitied!  [Second  gun. 

Vyv.  There,  again! 

And  still  so  far!     Out  of  my  path,  insane  one! 
Were  there  naught  else,  thy  youth,  thy  mother's  love 
Should  make  thee  sacred  to  a  warrior's  arm — 
Out  of  my  path.     Thus,  then! 

[Suddenly  lifts,  and  puts  him  aside.^ 
Oh,  England— England! 


260  BULWER'S   DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  IV 

Do  not  reject  me  too ! — 1  come !  I  come !        [Exit  up  the  cliff. 
Lord  B.  Thrust  from  his  pathway — every  vein  runs  fire  I 
Thou  shalt  not  thus  escape  me — Stand  or  die! 

[Bushes  after  him."] 
[Vy VYAN  retreats  to  the  edge  of  the  dif,  and  grasps  for 
support  at  the  bough  of  a  tree. 

Vyv.  Forbear,  forbear  I 

Lord  B.  Thy  blood  on  thine  own  head! 

[Third  gun, 

[As  Beaufort  lifts  his  sword  and  strikes^  Vyvyan  re- 
treats— the   hough  breaks^  and  Vyvyan  falls  down 
the  precipice. 
Wreck,  [luho  has  followed  part  of  the  way^  peering  down  the 
precipice']. — Is  the  deed  done?     If  not  this  steel  com- 
pletes it.  [Descends  the  cliffy  and  disappears. 
[Lord   Beaufort  sinks  on  his  knee  in  horror.     The 
ship  sails  on  as  the  scene  closes  slowly. 


SCENE  I]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEHl  261 


ACT  v.— SCENE  I. 

St.  Kinian^s  Cliff.     A  year  is  supposed  to  have  passed  since 
the  date  of  Act  IV. 

Enter  SiR  Grey  de  Malpas. 
Sir  G.  A  year — and  Wrecklyffe  still  is  mute  and  absent. 
Even  as  Vyvyan  is!     Most  clear!     He  saw, 
And  haply  shared,  the  murderous  deed  of  Beaufort; 
And  Beaufort's  wealth  hath  bribed  him  to  desert 
Penury  and  me.     That  Clarence  slew  his  brother 
I  cannot  doubt.     He  shuts  me  from  his  presence; 
But  I  have  watched  him,  wandering,  lone,  yet  haunted — 
Marked  the  white  lip  and  glassy  eyes  of  one 
For  whom  the  grave  has  ghosts,  and  silence,  horror. 
His  mother,  on  vague  pretext  of  mistrust 
That  I  did  sell  her  first-born  to  the  pirate. 
Excludes  me  from  her  sight,  but  sends  me  alms 
Lest  the  world  cry,  "See,  her  poor  cousin  starves  I" 
Can  she  guess  Beaufort's  guilt?     Nay!     For  she  lives  I 
1  know  that  deed,  which,  told  unto  the  world. 
Would  make  me  heir  of  Montreville.     Oh,  mockery! 
For  how  proceed? — no  proof!     How  charge? — no  witness  1 
How  cry,  "Lo!  murder!"  yet  produce  no  corpse! 

Enter  Alton. 
Alton.  Sir  Grey  de  Malpas!     I  was  on  my  way 
To  your  own  house. 


262  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  V 

Sir  G.  Good  Alton — can  I  serve  you? 

Alton.  The  boy  I  took  from  thee,  returned  a  man 
Twelve  months  ago:  mine  oath  absolved. 

Sir  Q.  'Tis  true. 

Alton.  Here  did  I  hail  the  rightful  Lord  of  Montreville, 
And  from  these  arms  he  rushed  to  claim  his  birthright. 

Sir  G.   \aside\.  She  never  told  me  this. 

Alton.  That  night,  his  warship 

Sailed  to  our  fleet.     I  deemed  him  with  the  battle. 
Time  went;  Heaven's  breath  had  scattered  the  Armada. 
I  sat  at  my  porch  to  welcome  him — he  came  not. 
I  said,  "His  mother  had  abjured  her  offspring, 
And  law  detains  him  while  he  arms  for  justice." 
Hope  sustained  patience  till  to-day. 

Sir  G.  To-day? 

Alton.  The  very  friend  who  had  led  me  to  his  breast 
Returns  and 

Sir  G.   [soothingly].   Well? 

Alton.  He  fought  not  with  his  country. 

Sir  G.  And  this  cold  friend  lets  question  sleep  a  year? 

Alton.  His  bark  too  rashly  chased  the  flying  foe; 
Was  wrecked  on  hostile  shores;  and  he  a  prisoner. 

Sir  G.  Lean  on  my  arm,  thou'rt  faint. 

Alton.  Oh,  Grey  de  Malpas, 

Can  men  so  vanish — save  in  murderous  graves? 
You  turn  away. 

Sir  G.  What  murder  without  motive? 

And  who  had  motive  here? 

Alton.  Unnatural  kindred. 

Sir  G.  Kindred!     Ensnare  me  not!     Mine,  too,  that  kin- 
dred. 
Old  man,  beware  how  thou  asperse  Lord  Beaufort! 


SCENE  I]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  263 

Alton.  Beaufort!     Oh,  horror!     How  the  instinctive  truth 
Starts  from  thy  lips. 

Sir  G.  From  mine — priest! 

Alton.  Not  of  man 

And  pardon,  if  accomplice 

Sir  O.  I  accomplice! 

Nay,  since  'tis  my  good  name  thou  sulliest  now — 
This  is  mine  answer:  Probe;  examine;  search; 
And  call  on  justice  to  belie  thy  slander. 
Go,  seek  the  aid  of  stout  Sir  Godfrey  Seymour; 
A  dauntless  magistrate;  strict,  upright,  honest: 
[J.-sic?e.]  At  heart  a  Puritan,  and  hates  a  lord, 
With  other  slides  that  fit  into  my  grooves. 

Alton.   He  bears  with  all  the  righteous  name  thou  giv'st 
him. 
Thy  zeal  acquits  thyself. 

Sir  O.  And  charges  none. 

Alton.  Heaven  reads  the  heart.     Man  can  but  track  the 
deed. 
My  task  is  stern.  [Exit  Alton. 

Sir  O.  Scent  lies — suspicious  dogs — 

And  with  hot  breath  pants  on  the  flight  of  conscience. 
Ah!  who  comes  here?     Sharp  wit,  round  all  occasion! 

Enter  Falkner  with  Sailors. 

Folk.  Learn  all  you  can — when  latest  seen,  and  where — 
Meanwhile  I  seek  yon  towers.  [Exeunt  Sailors. 

Sir  0.  Doubtless,  fair  sir, 

I  speak  to  Vyvyan's  friend.     My  name  is  Malpas — 
Can  it  be  true,  as  Alton  doth  inform  me, 
That  you  suspect  your  comrade  died  by  murder? 

FaVc.  Murder! 


264  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  V 

Sir  G.  And  by  a  rival's  hand?     Amazed! 

Yet  surely  so  I  did  conceive  the  priest. 

Falk.  Murder! — a  rival! — true,  he  loved  a  maiden! 

JSir  G.  In  yonder  halls! 

Falk.  Despair!     Am  I  too  late 

For  all  but  vengeance!     Speak,  sir, — who  this  rival? 

Sir  G.    Vengeance! — fie! — seek  those  towers,   and  learn 
compassion 
Sad  change,  indeed,  since  here,  at  silent  night, 
Your  Vyvyan  met  the  challenge  of  Lord  Beaufort. 

Falk.  A  challenge? — here? — at  night? 

Sir  G.  Yes,  this  the  place. 

How  sheer  the  edge!  crag,  cave,  and  chasm  below! 
If  the  foot  slipped, — nay,  let  us  think  slipped  heedless, — 
Or  some  weak  wounded  man  were  headlong  plunged, 
What  burial  place  more  secret? 

Falk.  Hither,  look! 

Look  where,  far  down  the  horrible  descent, 
Through  some  fresh  cleft  rush  subterranean  waves, 
How  wheel  and  circle  ghastly  swooping  wings! 

Sir  G.  The  seagulls  ere  a  storm. 

Falk.  No!     Heaven  is  clear! 

The  storm  they  tell,  speeds  lightning  toward  the  guilty. 
So  have  I  seen  the  foul  birds  in  lone  creeks, 
Sporting  around  the  shipwrecked  seamen's  bones. 
Guide  me,  ye  spectral  harbingers  I  [Descends  the  cliff. 

Sir  G.  From  bough 

To  bough  he  swings — from  peak  to  slippery  peak 
I  see  him  dwindling  down; — the  loose  stones  rattle; 
He  falls— he  falls — but  'lights  on  yonder  ledge, 
And  from  the  glaring  sun  turns  steadfast  eyes 
Where  still  the  seagulls  wheel;  now  crawls,  now  leaps; 


SCENE  II]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  265 

Crags  close  around  him — not  a  glimpse  nor  sound! 
Oh,  diver  for  the  dead, — bring  up  but  bones, 
And  round  the  skull  I'll  wreathe  my  coronet. 

[Scene  closes  on  SiR  GrREY  seated. 


SCENE   II. 

A  room  in  the  castle  of  Monireville — luith  casement  opening 
on  a  balcony  that  overhangs  the  sea. 

Enter  Lady  Montreville  and  Marsden. 
Lady  M.    Will  he  not  hunt  nor  hawk?     This  constant 
gloom! 
Canst  thou  not  guess  the  cause?     He  ivas  so  joyous! 
Mars.  Young  plants  need  air  and  sun;  man's  youth  the 
world. 
Young  men  should  pine  for  action.     Comfort,  madam. 
The  cause  is  clear,  if  you  recall  the  date. 
Lady  M.  Thou  hast  marked  the  date. 
Mars.  Since  that  bold  seaman's  visit. 

Lady  M.  Thy  tongue  runs  riot,  man.     How  should  that 
stranger, — 
I  say  a  stranger,  strike  dismay  in  Beaufort? 
Mars.   Dismay!     Not  that,  but  emulation! 
Lady  M.  Ay ! 

You  speak  my  thoughts,  and  I  have  prayed  our  Queen 
To  rank  your  young  lord  with  her  chivalry; 
This  day  mine  envoy  should  return. 

Mars.  This  day? 

Let  me  ride  forth  and  meet  him ! 

Lady  M.  Go!  [^xi^  Marsden. 

'Tis  true! 
Bulwer,  Vol.  XXX  *L 


266  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  V 

Such  was  the  date.     Hath  Clarence  guessed  the  secret — 

Guessed  that  a  first-born  lives?     I  dread  to  question! 

Yet  sure  the  wronged  was  faithful,  and  the  wrong 

Is  my  heart's  canker-worm  and  gnaws  unseen. 

Where  wanderest  thou,  sad  Edmond  ?     Not  one  word 

To  say  thou  liv'st — thy  very  bride  forsaken, 

As  if  love,  frozen  at  the  parent  well-spring, 

Left  every  channel  dry!     What  hollow  tread, 

Heavy  and  weary  falls  ?     Is  that  the  step 

Which  touched  the  mean  earth  with  a  lightsome  scorn, 

As  if  the  air  its  element? 

Enter  BEAUFORT — his   dress   neglected — wrapped  in   a   hose 
mantle  of  fur. 

Lord  B.  Cold!  cold! 

And  I  saw  the  beggar  doff  his  frieze. 
Warm  in  his  rags.     I  shiver  under  ermine. 
For  me  'tis  never  summer — never — never! 

Lady  M.  How  fares  my  precious  one  ? 

Lord  B.  Well; — but  so  cold. 

Ho!  there!  without! 

Enter  Servant. 
Wine — wine!  [Exit  Servant. 

Lady  M.  Alas!  alas! 

Why,  this  is  fever — thy  hand  burns. 

Lord  B.  That  hand! 

Ay,  that  hand  always  burns. 

Re-enter  Servant,  with  wine,  and  a  goblet  of  rich  workman- 
ship, set  in  jewels. 

Look  you — the  cup 
The  wondrous  Tuscan  jeweller,  Cellini, 


SCENE  n]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  267 

Made  for  a  king!     A  king's  gift  to  thy  father! 
What?     Serve  such  gauds  to  me! 

Lady  M.  Thyself  so  ordered 

In  the  proud  whims  thy  light  heart  made  so  graceful. 

Lord  B.  Was  I  proud  pace?     Ha!  ha!     What's  this? — 
not  wine? 

Servant.  Tbe  Malvoisie  your  lordship's  friends,  last  year, 
Esteemed  your  rarest. 

Lord  B.  How  one  little  year 

Hath  soured  it  into  nausea!     Faugh — 'tis  rank. 

Lady  M.  \to  Servant].   Send  for  the  leech — quick — go. 

[Exit  Servant. 
Oh,  Clarence!  Clarence! 
Is  this  the  body's  sickness,  or  the  soul's? 
Is  it  life's  youngest  sorrow,  love  misplaced? 
Thou  dost  not  still  love  Eveline? 

Lord  B.  Did  I  love  her? 

Lady   M.    Or   one   whose    birth    might    more   offend  my 
pride  ? 
Well,  I  am  proud.     But  I  would  hail  as  daughter 
The  meanest  maiden  from  whose  smile  thy  lip 
Caught  smiles  again.     Thy  smile  is  day  to  me. 

Lord  B.   Poor  mother,  fear  not.     Never  hermit-monk, 
Gazing  on  skulls  in  lone  sepulchral  cells. 
Had  heart  as  proof  to  woman's  smile  as  mine. 

Lady  M.   The  court — the  camp — ambition — 

Enter  Marsden  with  a  letter. 

Mars.  From  the  Queen  1 

\_While  the  CouNTESS  reads.,  Marsden,  turning  to  LoRD 
Beaufort. 
My  dear  young  Lord,  be  gay!     The  noblest  knight 


268  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  V 

In  all  the  land,  Lord  Essex,  on  his  road 
From  conquered  Cadiz,  with  the  armed  suite 
That  won  his  laurels,  sends  before  to  greet  you, 
And  prays  you  will  receive  him  in  your  halls. 

Lord  B.  The  flower  of  England's  gentry,  spotless  Essex ! 
Sully  him  not,  old  man,  bid  him  pass  on. 

Lady  M.  Joy,  Beaufort,  joy!     August  Elizabeth 
Owns  thee  her  knight,  and  bids  thee  wear  her  colors, 
And  break  thy  maiden  lance  for  England's  lady. 

Lord  B.    I    will   not   go.      Barbed   steeds   and    knightly 
banners — 
Bawbles  and  gewgaws! 

Mars.  G-lorious  to  the  young. 

Lord  B.   Ay — to  the  young!     Oh,  whea  did  poet-dreams 
Ever  shape  forth  such  fairyland  as  youth! 
Gossamer  hopes,  pearled  with  the  dews  of  morn, 
Gray  valor,  bounding  light  on  welcome  peril, — 
Errors  themselves,  the  sparkling  overflow, 
Of  life  as  headlong,  but  as  pure  as  streams 
That  rush  from  sunniest  hill-tops  kissing  heaven, — 
Lo!  that  is  youth.     Look  on  my  soul,  old  man. 
"VVell — is  it  not  more  gray  than  those  blanched  hairs? 

Lady  M.  He  raves — heed  not  his  words.     Go,  speed  the 
leech!  \_Exit  Marsden. 

Lady  M.  \aside\.  I  know  these  signs — by  mine  own  soul 
I  know  them; 
This  is  nor  love,  nor  honor's  sigh  for  action. 
Nor  Nature's  milder  suffering.     This  is  guilt! 
Clarence—now,  side  by  side,  I  sit  with  thee! 
Put  thine  arms  round  me,  lean  upon  my  breast — 
It  is  a  mother's  breast.     So,  that  is  well; 
jSTow — whisper  low — what  is  thy  crime? 


SCENE  11]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  269 

Lord  B.  [bursting  into  tears].  Oh,  mother! 

Would  thou  hadst  never  borne  me! 

Lady  M.  Ah,  ungrateful  I 

Lord  B.    No  —  for    thy   sake    I    speak.      Thou  —  justly 
proud, 

For  thou  art  pure;  thou,  on  whose  whitest  name 

Detraction  spies  no  soil — dost  thou  say  "crime" 

Unto  thy  son;  and  is  his  answer  tears? 

Enter  EvELlNE,  weaving  floioers  as  in  first  act. 

Evel— 

Blossoms,  I  weave  ye 

To  drift  on  the  sea, 
Say  when  ye  find  him 

Who  sang  '"Woe  is  me  I" — 

[Approaching  Beaufort.]  Have  you  no  news? 
Lord  B.  Of   whom? 

Evel.  Of   Vyvyan? 

Lord   B.    That    name!      Her   reason    wanders;    and    oh, 
mother, 
When  that  name's   uttered — so  doth   mine — hush,  hush  it, 
[Eveline   goes    to   the   balcony  and   throws   the  garland 
into   the  sea. 
Lady  M.   Kill  me  at  once — or  when  I  ask  again, 
What  is  thy  crime? — reply,  "No  harm  to  Vyvyan!" 
Lord  B.   [breaking  away].   Unhand  me!     Let  me  go! 

[Exit  Lord  Beaufort. 
Lady   M.  This  pulse  beats  still! 

Nature  rejects  me! 

Evel.    [from  the  balcony].  Come,  come — see  the  garland, 
It  dances  on  the  waves  so  merrily. 


270  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 

Enter  Marsden. 
Mars,    [drawing    aside    Lady    M.]    Forgive   this    haste. 
Amid  St.  Kinian's  cliffs, 
Where,  once  an  age,  on  glassy  peaks  may  glide 
The  shadow  of  a  man,  a  stranger  venturing 
Hath  found  bleached  human  bones,  and  to  your  hall, 
Nearest  at  hand,  and  ever  famed  for  justice, 
Leads  on  the  crowd,  and  saith  the  dead  was  Vyvyan. 
Evel.    Ha!    who   named   Vyvyan?      Has   he   then  come 

back  ? 
Mars.  Fair  mistress,  no. 

Lady  M.  If  on  this  terrible  earth 

Pity  lives  still — lead  her  away.     Be  tender. 

Evel.   [approaching  Lady  M.]  I  promised  him  to  love  you 
as  a  mother. 
Kiss  me,  and  trust  in  Heaven!     He  will  return! 

[Exeunt  Eveline  and  Marsden. 
Lady  M.  These  horrors  are  unreal. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Servant.  Noble  mistress, 

Sir  Godfrey  Seymour,  summoned  here  in  haste. 
Craves  your  high  presence  in  the  Justice  Hall. 

Lady  M.  Mine — Mine?     Where  goest  thou? 

Servant.  Sir  Godfrey  bade  me 

Seek  my  young  Lord. 

Lady  M.  Stir  not.     My  son  is  ill. 

Thyself  canst  witness  how  the  fever   [hurrying   to  the  side 
scene'] — Marsden ! 

Enter  Marsden. 
My  stricken  Clarence! — In  his  state,  a  rumor 
Of — of  what  passes  here,  might  blast  life — reason: 


SCENE  in]  THE    RIGHTFUL   HEIR  271 

Go,  lure  him  hence — if  he  resist,  use  force 
As  to  a  maniac.     Good  old  man,  thou  lov'st  him; 
His  innocent  childhood  played  around  thy  knees — 
I  know  I  can  trust  thee.     Quick — speak  not: — Save! 

[Exit  Marsden. 
[To  Servant.]  Announce  my  coming.  \_Exit  Servant. 

This  day,  life  to  shield 
The  living  son: — Death,  with  the  dead,  to-morrow! 

{Exit  Lady  Montreville. 


SCENE   III. 

A  vast  feudal  hall  m  the  castle.  At  the  extreme  end,  the 
carved  screen  work  of  later  date,  supporting  the  minstreW 
gallery  {similar  to  that  in  Hampton  Court).  The  opening 
in  the  screen  is  made  the  principal  entry  on  the  scene.  In 
another  part  of  the  hall  a  high  Gothic  casement  forms  a  re- 
cess, over  which  a  curtain  is  drawn  aside.  In  the  recess  a 
trestle,  serving  as  bier  for  the  remains  of  the  dead,  ivhich  are 
covered  with  a  cloth.  At  each  side  of  the  screen  entry,  a  hal- 
berdier in  the  service  of  SiR  GODFREY  SEYMOUR,  officiating 
as  constable.     Alton  kneeling  before  the  trestle  in  the  recess. 

In  front  of  the  stage,  a  table,  before  which  SiR  Godfrey 
Seymour  seated.  A  Clerk  employed  in  writing.  Sir  Grey 
DE  Malpas  standing  near  SiR  Godfrey.  Falkner  a  little 
apart. 

Sir   Oodf.    \to  Falkner].    Be  patient,   sir,  and  give   us 
ample  proof 
To  deem  yon  undistinguishable  bones 
The  relics  of  your  friend. 


272  BULWER'S   DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 

Falk.  That  gentleman 

Can  back  my  oath,  that  these,  the  plume,  the  gem 
Which  Vyvyan  wore — I  found  them  on  the  cliff. 

Sir  Oodf.  Verily,  is  it  so  ? 

Sir    Grey,     \ioiih   assumed  reluctance].    Sith   law   compel 
me — 
Yes,  1  must  vouch  it. 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant,   [placing  a  chair  of  state'].  Sir,  my  lady  comes. 

Sir  Oodf.  Let  not  that  sight  appal  her 

Sir  Orey.  And  her  son. 

[Servant   draws   the    curtain   round    the   recess.,    leaving 
Alton   still  kneeling   within^  and  exit. 

Enter  Lady  Montreville,  and  seats  herself. 

Sir  Oodf.   You  pardon,  madam,  mine  imperious  duties, 
And  know  my  dismal  task 

Lady  M.  Pray  you  be  brief,  sir. 

Sir  Oodf  Was,  this  time  year,  the  captain  of  a  warship, 
Yyvyan  his  name,  your  guest? 

Lady  M.  But  one  short  day — 

To  see  my  ward,  whom  he  had  saved  from  pirates. 

Sir  Oodf.  I  pray  you,  madam,  in  his  converse  with  you 
Spoke  he  of  any  foe,  concealed  or  open, 
Whom  he  had  cause  to  fear? 

Lady  M.  Of  none! 

Sir  Oodf  Nor  know  you 

Of  any  such? 

Lady  M.  [after  a  pause].  I  do  not. 

Sir  Oodf.  [aside  to  Fi^LKNER].  Would  your  further 

Question  this  lady,  sir? 


SCENE  ra]  THE   RIGHTFUL   HEIR  273 

Falk.  No,  she  is  woman, 

And  mother;  let  her  go.     I  wait  Lord  Beaufort. 

Sir  Oodf.  Madam,  no  longer  will  we  task  your  presence. 

Enter  Lord  Beaufort,  breaking  from  Marsden,  and 
other  Attendants. 

Lord  B.  Off,  dotard,  off !     Gruests  in  our  hall ! 
Lady  M.  He  is  ill. 

Sore  ill — fierce  fever — I  will  lead  him  forth. 
Come,  Clarence;  darling,  come! 

Lord  B.  Who  is  this. man? 

Falk.    The  friend   of  Yyvyan,   whose    pale  bones  plead 
yonder. 

Lord  B.  I — I  will  go.     Let's  steal  away,  my  mother. 
[Sir  Grey  intercepts  the  retreat  of  Beaufort,  and^  with 
by-play  intimating  remonstrance  a7id  encouragement, 
urges  him  forward. 
Falk.    Lost    friend,    in    war,    how    oft     thy    word     was 
"spare." — 
Methinks  1  hear  thee  now  [drawing  aside  Lord  Beaufort]. 

Young  lord,  I  came 
In  these  halls,  demanding  blood  for  blood — 
But  thy  remorse  [this  is  remorse]  disarms  me. 
Speak;  do  but  say — (look,  I  am  young  myself. 
And  know  how  hot  is  youth;)  speak — do  but  say, 
After  warm  words,  struck  out  from  jealous  frenzy, 
Quick  swords  were  drawn:  Man's  open  strife  with  man- 
Passion,  not  murder:     Say  this,  and  may  law 
Pardon  thee,  as  a  soldier  does! 

Sir  Grey  [to  Marsden].  Call  Eveline, 

She  can  attest  our  young  lord's  innocence. 

[F7:it  Marsden. 


274  BULWER'S   DRAMATIC   WORKS  [act  v 

Falk.  He  will  not  speak,  sir,  let  my  charge  proceed. 

Lady   M.  \aside\.  Whate'er  the   truth — of  that — of   that 
hereafter, 
Now  but  remember,  child,  thy  birth,  thy  name; 
Thy  mother's  heart,  it  beats  beside  thee — take 
Strength  from  its  pulses. 

Lord  B.  Keep  close,  and  for  thy  sake 

I  will  not  cry — "  'Twas  passion,  yet  still,  murder!" 

Sir  Godf.  [who  has  been  conversing  aside  with  SiR  Grey]. 
Then  jealous  love  the  motive?     Likelier  that 
Than  Alton's  wilder  story. 

Enter  EvELINE  and  Marsden. 

Sweet  young  madam, 
If  I  be  blunt,  forgive  me;  we  are  met 
On  solemn  matters  which  relate  to  one 
Who,  it  is  said,  was  your  betrothed. 

Evel.  To  VyvyanI 

Sir  Oodf.   'Tis  also  said,  Lord  Beaufort  crossed  his  suit, 
And  your  betrothed  resented. 

Evel.  No!  forgave. 

Sir  Grey.    Yes,    when   you    feared   some   challenge   from 
Lord  Beaufort, 
Did  V3^vyan  not  cast  down  his  sword  and  say, 
"Both  will  be  safe,  for  one  will  be  unarmed?" 

[Great  sensation  through  the  hall.     Falkner  and  SiR 
Godfrey  hoth.\  Unarmed! 

Evel.   His  very  words! 
Falk.  Oh,  vile  assassin! 

Sir  Godf.  Accuser,   peace!     This    is   most  grave.     Lord 
Beaufort, 
Upon  such  tokens,  with  your  own  strange  bearing. 


SCENE  III]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  275 

As  ask  appeal  to  more  august  tribunal, 

You  stand  accused  of  purposed  felon  murder 

On  one  named  Yyvyan,  Captain  of  the  Dreadnought — 

Wouldst  thou  say  aught  against  this  solemn  charge? 

Evel.    Murdered! — he — Yyvyan!      Thou     his    murderer, 
Clarence, 
In  whose  rash  heat  my  hero  loved  frank  valor? 
Lo!  I,  to  whom  his  life  is  as  tlie  sun 
Is  to  the  world — with  my  calm  trust  in  Heaven 
Mantle  thee  thus. 

Lady  M.  [aside].  Be  firm — deny,  and  live. 
Lord  B.  \ivith  a  vaciUatmg  attempt  at  his  former  haughti- 
ness'].   You  call  my   bearing  "strange" — what  marvel, 
sir? 
Stunned  by  such  charges,  of  a  crime  so  dread. 
What  proof  against  me? 

Lady  M.  [while  Lady  M.  speaks.,  Sir  GTrey  steals  behind 
the  curtain].     Words  deposed  by  whom? 
A  man  unknown; — a  girl's  vague  fear  of  quarrel — 
His  motive  what?     A  jealous  anger!     Phantom! 
Is  not  mine  son  mine  all? — And  yet  this  maid 
/  plighted  to  another.     Had  I  done  so 
If  loved  by  him,  and  at  the  risk  of  life? 
Again,  I  ask  all  present  what  the  motive? 

Alton,  [advancing from  the  recess  with  SiR  Grey].   Eank, 

fortune,  birthright.     Miserable  woman! 
Lady  M.  Whence  com'st  thou,  pale  accuser? 
Alton.  From  the  dead! 

Which  of  ye  two  will  take  the  post  I  leave? 
Which  of  ye  two  will  draw  aside  that  veil, 
Look  on  the  bones  behind,  and  cry,  "I'm  guiltless?" 
Hast  thou  conspired  with  him  to  slay  thy  first-born, 


27(5  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  V 

Or  knows  he  not  that  Yyvyan  was  his  brother? 

[Lady  Montkeville  swoons.     Till  noiu  Eveline  has 
held  to  Beaufort — now  she  rushes  to  Lady  Mon- 
tkeville. 
Lord  B.    My   brother!     No!  no!    no!    [clutching  hold  of 

Sir  Grey].  Kinsman,  he  lies! 
Sir  Orey.   Alas! 

Lord  B.  Wake,  mother,  wake.     I  ask  not  speech. 

Lift  bat  thy  brow — one  flash  of  thy  proud  eye 
Would  strike  these  liars  dumb! 

Alton.  Read  but  those  looks 

To  learn  that  thou  art 

Tjord   B.     Cain!    \graspi71g    Falkner].      Out    with     thy 
sword — 
Hew  ofl'  this  hand.     Thou  calledst  me  "Assassin!" 
Too  mild — say  "Fratricide!"     Cain,  Cain,  thy  brother! 

[Falls. 
Evel.  It  cannot  be  so!     No.     Thou  wondrous  Mercy, 
That  from  the  pirate's  knife,  the  funeral  seas 
And  all  their  shapes  of  death,  didst  save  the  lone  one, 
To  prove  to  earth  how  vainly  man  despairs 
Wiiile  God  is  in  the  heavens — I  cling  to  thee. 
As  faith  unto  its  anchor!     [To  Sir  Grey.]  Back,  false  kins- 
man! 
I  tell  thee  Vyvyan  lives — the  boy  is  guiltless! 

Falk.    Poor,    noble    maid!      How   my    heart    bleeds    for 

her! 
Lady  M.  [starting  up].  Sentence  us  both!  or  stay, — would 
law  condemn, 
A  child  so  young,  if  I  had  urged  him  to  it? 

Sir  Godf.   Unnatural  mother,  hush !     Sir  Grey,  to  you, 
Perchance  ere  long,  by  lives  too  justly  forfeit. 


SCENE  III]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  277 

Eaised  to  this  earldom,  I  intrust  these — prisoners. 

\J\fotions  to  the  halberdiers,  who  advance  to  arrest  BEAU- 
FORT and  Lady  Montreville. 
Mars.  Oh,  day  of  woe! 
Sir  Grey.  Woe — yes !     Make  way  for  us. 

[Trumpet. 
Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  My  Lord  of  Essex  just  hath  passed  the  gates; 
But  an  armed  knight  who  rode  beside  the  Earl, 
After  brief  question  to  the  crowd  without, 
Sprang  from  his  steed,  and  forces  here  his  way! 

Enter  Knight   in  half  armor — wrapped  in  his  horseman^ s 
cloak,   his  visor  three  parts  down. 

Knight.   Forgiveness  of  all  present! 

Sir  Godf.  Who  art  thou? 

Knight.  A  soldier,  knighted  by  the  hand  of  Essex 
Upon  the  breach  of  Cadiz. 

Sir  Godf.  What  thy  business? 

Knight.   To  speak  the  truth.     Who  is  the  man  accused 
Of  Vyvyan's  murder. 

Sir  Grey.  You  behold  him  yonder. 

Knight.   'Tis  false. 

Sir  Grey.  His  own  lips  have  confessed  his  crime. 

Knight,     [throiuing  doion  his  gauntlet].    This   to   the   man 
whose  crushing  lie  bows  down 
Upon  the  mother's  bosom  that  young  head! 
Say  you  "confess'd!"     Oh,  tender,  tender  conscience! 
Vy  vyan,  rough  sailor,  galled  him  and  provoked ; 
He  raised  his  hand.     To  the  sharp  verge  of  the  cliflf 
Vyvyan  recoiled,  backed  by  an  outstretched  bough. 


278  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 

The  bough  gave  way — he  fell,  but  not  to  perish; 

Saved  by  a  bush-grown  ledge  that  broke  his  fall. 

Long  stunned  he  lay ;  when  opening  dizzy  eyes, 

On  a  gray  crag  between  him  and  the  abyss 

He  saw  the  face  of  an  old  pirate  foe; 

Saw  the  steel  lifted,  saw  it  flash  and  vanish, 

As  a  dark  mass  rushed  thro'  the  moonlit  air 

Dumb  into  deeps  below — the  indignant  soil 

Had  slid  like  glass  beneath  the  murderer's  feet, 

And  his  own  death-spring  whirled  him  to  his  doom. 

Then  Vyvyan  rose,  and,  crawling  down  the  rock, 

Stood  by  the  foe,  who,  stung  to  late  remorse 

By  hastening  death,  gasped  forth  a  dread  confession. 

The  bones  ye  find  are  those  of  Murder's  agent — 

Murder's  arch-schemer — Who? — Ho!     Grey  de  Malpas, 

Stand  forth!     Thou  art  the  man! 

/Sir  Grey.  Hemm'd  round  with  toils, 

Soul,  crouch  no  more!     Base  hireling,  doff  thy  mask, 
And  my  sword  writes  the  lie  upon  thy  front. 
By  Beaufort's  hand  died  Yyvyan — 

Knight.  As  the  spell 

Shatters  the  sorcerer  when  his  fiends  desert  him. 
Let  thine  own  words  bring  doom  upon  thyself  I 
Now  face  the  front  on  which  to  write  the  lie. 

[Casts  off  his  helmet. 
[Sir  Grey  drops  his  sivord  and  staggers  hack  into  the 
arms  of  the  retainers. 

Evel.  Thou  liv'st,  thou  liv'st — 

Vyv.   [kneeling  to  her'].  Is  life  worth  something  still? 

Sir  Grey.   Air,   air — my  staff — some  chord  seems  broken 
here.  [Pressing  his  heart. 

Marsden,  your  Lord  shot  his  poor  cousin's  dog; 


SCENE  III]  THE    RIGHTFUL    HEIR  279 

In  the  dog's  grave — mark! — bary  the  poor  cousin. 

[iSinks  exhausted  and  is  borne  out. 

Vyv.  Mine  all  on  earth,  if  1  may  call  thee  mine. 

Evel  Thine,  thine,  thro'  life,  thro'  death— one  heart,  one 
grave! 
I  knew  thou  wouldst  return,  for  I  have  lived 
In  thee  so  utterly,  thou  couldst  not  die 
And  I  live  still — the  dial  needs  the  sun; 
But  love  reflects  the  image  of  the  loved, 
Tho'  every  beam  be  absent! — Thine,  all  thine! 

Lady  M.  My  place  is  forfeited  on  thy  breast,  not  his. 

[Pointing  to  Beaufort. 
Clarence,  embrace  thy  brother,  and  my  first-born. 
His  rights  are  clear — my  love  for  thee  suppressed  them — 
He  may  forgive  me  yet — wilt  tliou  ? 

Beau.  Forgive  thee! 

Oh  mother,  what  is  rank  to  him  who  hath  stood 
Banished  from  out  the  social  pale  of  men. 
Bowed  like  a  slave,  and  trembling  as  a  felon? 
Heaven  gives  me  back  mine  ermine,  innocence: 
And  my  lost  dignity  of  manhood,  honor. 
I  miss  naught  else. — Room  there  for  me,  my  brother! 

Vyv.  Mother,  come  first!— love  is  as  large  as  heaven! 

Falk.   But  why  so  long 

Vyv.  What!  could  I  face  thee,  friend, 

Or  claim  my  bride,  till  T  bad  won  back  honor? 
The  fleet  had  sailed — the  foeman  was  defeated — 
And  on  the  eartb  I  laid  me  down  to  die. 
The  prince  of  England's  youth,  frank-hearted  Essex, 

Passed  by But  later  I  will  tell  you  how 

Pity  woke  question;  soldier  felt  for  soldier. 
Essex  then,  nobly  envying  Drake's  renown, 


280  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  v 

Conceived  a  scheme,  kept  secret  till  our  clarions, 
Startling  the  towers  of  Spain,  told  earth  and  time 
How  England  answers  the  invader.     Clarence, 
Look — I  have  won  the  golden  spurs  of  knighthood  I 

For  worldly  gifts,  we'll  share  them — hush,  my  brother  1 

Love  me,  and  thy  gift  is  as  large  as  mine. 

Fortune  stints  gold  to  some ;  impartial  Nature 

Shames  her  in  proffering  more  than  gold  to  all — 

Joy  in  tlie  sunshine,  beauty  on  the  earth. 

And  love  reflected  in  the  glass  of  conscience; 

Are  these  so  mean  ?     Place  grief  and  guilt  beside  them, 

Decked  io  a  sultan's  splendor,  and  compare! 

The  world's  most  royal  heritage  is  his 

Who  most  CD  joys,  most  loves,  and  most  forgives. 


W  A  LPO  LE 

OR   EVERY    MAN    HAS    HIS    PRICE 


281 


DRAMATIS    PERSON/E 

The  Right  Hon.  Robert  Walpole,  M.P.,  Chancellor  cf 

the  Exchequer^  and  First  Lord  of  the  Treasury. 
John  Veasey,  M.P.,  his  Confidant. 
Selden  Blount,  M.P. 
Sir  Sidney  Bellair,  Bart.,  M.P. 
Lord  Nithsdale. 
1st  Jacobite  Lord. 
2d  Jacobite  Lord. 

Frequenters  of  Tom's  Coffee-House,  Servants,  etc. 

WOMEN. 
Lucy  Wilmot.  Mrs.  Vizard. 


Scene — London,  1716. 
Time  occupied  by  the  Events  of  the  Play — One  Bay. 


(282) 


WALPOLE 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 

Tom^s  Coffee-house.     In  the  background,  gentlemen  seated 
in  different  com2)artme7its,  or  ^^boxes.^^ 

Enter  Walpole  and  Veasey  from  opposite  sides.     ■ 

Yea.   Ha!  good-day,  mj  dear  patron. 

Wal.  Good -day,  my  dear  friend, 

You  can  spare  me  five  minutes? 

Vea.  Five  thousand. 

Wal.  Attend ; 

I  am  just  from  the  king,  and  I  failed  not  to  press  him 
To  secure  to  his  service  John  Veasey. 

Vea.  Grod  bless  him! 

Wal.  George's  reign,  just  begun,  your  tried  worth   will 
distinguish. 

Vea.  Oh,  a  true  English  king! 

Wal.  Tho'  he  cannot  speak  English. 

Vea.  You  must  find  that  defect  a  misfortune,  I  fear. 

Wal.  The  reverse;  for  no  rivals  can  get  at  his  ear. 
It  is  something  to  be  the  one  public  man  pat  in 
The  new  language  that  now  governs  England,  dog  Latin. 

Vea.  Happy  thing  for  these  kingdoms  that  you  have  that 
gift, 
Or,  alas!  thro'  what  shoals  all  our  counsels  would  drift. 

(283) 


284  BULWER-S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  I 

Wed.   Yes,  the  change  from  Queen  Anne  to  King  George 
we  must  own, 
Kenders  me  and  the  "Whigs  the  sole  props  of  the  throne. 
For  the  Tories  their  Jacobite  leanings  disgrace, 
And  a  Whig  is  the  only  safe  man  for  a  place. 

Vea.   And  the  Walpoles  of  Houghton,   in  all   their  re 
lations, 
Have  been  Whigs  to  the  backbone  for  three  generations. 

Wal.  Ay,  my  father  and  mother  contrived  to  produce 
Their  eighteen  sucking  Whigs  for  the  family  use, 
Of  which  number  one  only,  without  due  reflection, 
Braved  the  wrath  of  her  house  by  a  Tory  connection. 
But,  by  Jove,  if  her  Jacobite  husband  be  living, 
I  will  make  him  a  Whig. 

Vea.  How  ? 

Wal.  By  something  worth  giving: 

For  I  loved  her  in  boyhood,  that  pale  pretty  sister; 
And  in  counting  the  Walpoles  still  left,  I  have  missed  her. 

[Pauses  in  emotion  but  quickly  recovers  himself. 
What  ivas  it  I  said? — Oh, — the  State  and  the  Guelph, 
For  their  safety,  must  henceforth  depend  on  myself. 
The    revolt,    scarcely    quenched,    has    live    sparks    in    its 

ashes; 
Nay,  fresh  seeds  for  combustion  were  sown  by  its  flashes. 
Each  example  we  make  dangerous  pity  bequeaths; 
For  no  Briton  likes  blood  in  the  air  that  he  breathes. 

Vea.   Yes:  at  least  there's  one  rebel  whose  doom  to  the 
block 
Tho'  deserved,  gives  this  soft-hearted  people  a  shock. 

Wal.  Lord  Nithsdale,  you  mean;  handsome,  young,  and 
just  wedded, — 
A  poor  head,  that  would  do  us  much  harm  if  beheaded. 


SCENE  I]  WALPOLE  285 

Vea.  Yet  they  say  you  rejected  all  prayers  for  his  life. 

Wal.  It  is  true;  but  in  private  I've  talked  to  his  wife; 
She  had  orders  to  see  him  last  night  in  the  Tower. 
And 

Vea.     Well? 

Wal.  [looking  at  his  watcJi].  Wait  for  the  news — 'tis  not 
yet  quite  the  hour. 
Ah!  poor  England,  I  fear,  at  the  General  Election, 
Will  vote  strong  in  a  mad  anti-Whiggish  direction. 
From  a  Jacobite  Parliament  we  must  defend  her. 
Or  the  King  will  be  Stuart,  and  Gruelph  the  Pretender. 
And  I  know  but  one  measure  to  rescue  our  land 
From  tbe  worst  of  all  ills — Civil  War. 

Vea.                                                          True ;  we  stand 
At  that  dread  turning-point  in  the  life  of  a  State 
When  its  free  choice  would  favor  what  freedom  should  hate; 
When  the  popular  cause,  could  we  poll  population 

Wal.   Would    be  found   the   least   popular   thing  in  the 
nation. 

Vea.  Scarce  a  fourth  of  this  people  are  sound  in  their 
reason 

Wal.  But  we  can't  hang  the  other  three-fourths  for  high 
treason. 

Vea.  Tell  me,  what  is  the  measure  your  wisdom  proposes? 

Wal.  In  its   third  year,   by  law,   this  Whig  Parliament 
closes. 
But  the  law!     What's  the  law  in  a  moment  so  critical? 
Church  and  State  must  be  saved  from  a  House  Jacobitical. 
Let  this  Parliament  then,  under  favor  of  Heaven, 
Lengthen  out  its  existence  from  three  years  to^even. 

Vea.  Brilliant  thought!  could  the  State  keep  its  present 
directors 


286  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  I 

Undisturbed  for  a  time  by  those  rowdy  electors, 
While  this  new  German  tree,  just  transplanted,  takes  root, 
Dropping  down  on  the  lap  of  each  friend  golden  fruit, 
Britain  then  would  be  saved  from  all  chance  of  reaction 
To  the  craft  and  corruption  of  Jacobite  faction. 
But  ah !  think  you  the  Commons  would  swallow  the  ques- 
tion? 

Wal.    That    depends    on    what    pills    may    assist    their 
digestion. 
I  could  make — see  this  list — our  majority  sure. 
If  by  buying  two  men  I  could  sixty  secure; 
For  as  each  of  these  two  is  the  chief  of  a  section 
Tliat  will  vote  black  or  white  at  its  leader's  direction, 
Let  the  pipe  of  the  shepherd  but  lure  the  bell-wether, 
And  he  folds  the  whole  flock,  wool  and  cry,  altogether. 
Well,  the  first   of   these  two  worthy  members   you   guess. 

Vea.    Sure,    you    cannot   mean   Blount     virtuous   Selden 
Blount? 

Wal.       Yes. 

Vea.    What!    your    sternest    opponent,     half    Cato,     half 
ferutus, 
He,  whose  vote  incorruptible ■ 

Wal.                                                   Just  now  would  suit  us; 
For  a  patriot  so  stanch  could  with  dauntless  effrontery 

Vea.   Sell  himself  ? 

Wal.  Why,  of  course,  for  the  good  of  his  country. 

True,  his  price  will  be  high — he  is  worth  forty  votes. 
And  his  salary  must  pay  for  the  change  in  their  coats. 
Prithee,  has  not  his  zeal  for  his  fatherland — rather 
Overburthened  the  lands  he  received  from  his  father? 

Vea.   Well,    'tis   whispered    in    the   clubs   that  his  debts 
somewhat  tease  him. 


SCENE  I]  WALPOLE  287 

Wal.  1  must  see  him  in  private,  and  study  to  ease  him. 
Will  you  kindly  arrange  that  he  call  upon  me 
At  my  home,  not  my  office,  to-day — just  at  three. 
Not  a  word  that  can  hint  at  the  object  in  view — 
Say  some  bill  in  the  House  that  concerns  him  and  you; 
And  on  which,  as  distinct  from  all  party  disputes. 
Members  meet  without  tearing  each  other  like  brutes. 

Vea.  Lucky  thought — Blount  and  I  both  agree  in  Com- 
mittee 
On  a  bill  for  amending  the  dues  of  the  City 

Wal.  And  the  Government  wants  to  enlighten  its  soul 
On  the  price  which  the  public  should  pay  for  its  coal. 
We  shall  have  him,  this  Puritan  chief  of  my  foes. 
Now  the  next  one  to  catch  is  the  chief  of  the  Beaux; 
All  our  young  members  mimic  his  nod  or  his  laugh; 
And  if  Blount  be  worth  forty  votes,  he  is  worth  half. 

Vea.    Eh!      Bellair,     whose     defence    of     the     Jacobite 
peers 

Wal.    Thrilled  the  House;    Mister  Speaker  himself   was 
in  tears. 
Faith,  I  thought  he'd  have  beat  us.  [Taking  snuff. 

Vea.  The  fierce  peroration 

Wal.  Which  compared  me  to  Nero — superb  [brushing  the 
snuff  from  his  lace  lappet]  declamation ! 

Vea.  Yes;  a  very  fine  speaker. 

Wal.  Of  that  there's  no  doubt, 

For  he  speaks  about  things  he  knows  nothing  about. 
But  I  still  to  our  party  intend  to  unite  him — 
Secret  Service  Department — Bellair — a  small  item. 

Vea.  Nay,  you  jest — for  this  gay  maiden  knight  in  debate, 
To  a  promise  so  brilliant  adds  fortune  so  great 

Wal.  That  he  is  not  a  man  to  be  bought  by  hard  cash; 


288  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [acTI 

But  he's  vain  and  conceited,  light-hearted  and  rash. 
Every  favorite  of  fortune  hopes  still  to  be  greater, 
And  a  beau  must  want  something  to  turn  a  debater. 
Hem!     I  know  a  Duke's  daughter,  young,  sprightly,  and 

fair; 
She  will  wed  as  I  wish  her;  hint  that  to  Bellair; 
Ay,  and  if  he  will  put  himself  under  my  steerage, 
Say  that  with  the  Duke's  daughter  I  throw  in  the  peerage. 

Vea.  Those  are  baits  that  a  vain  man  of  wit  may  seduce. 

Wal.  Or,  if  not,  his  political  creed  must  be  loose; 
To  some  Jacobite  plot  he  will  not  be  a  stranger. 
And  to  win  him  securely 

Vea.  We'll  get  him  in  danger. 

Hist!  [Winter  Bellair  hummmy  a  tune. 


SCENE   II. 
Walpole,  Yeasey,  Bellair. 

Wal.  Good-mornmg,  Sir  Sidney;    your  speech  did    you 
credit; 
And  whatever  your  party,  in  time  you  will  head  it. 
Your  attack  on  myself  was  exceedingly  striking, 
Tho'  the  subject  you  chose  was  not  quite  to  my  liking. 
Tut!  I  never  bear  malice.     Yon  hunt? 

Bel.  Yes,  of  late. 

Wal.  And  you  ride  as  you  speak  ? 

Bel.  Well,  in  both  a  light  weight. 

Wal.  But   light  weights  have  the   odds   in   their  favor, 
I  fear. 


SCENE  in]  WALPOLE 

Come  and  hunt  with  my  harriers  at  Houghton  this  year; 
1  can  show  you  some  sport. 

Bel.  Sir,  there's  no  doubt  of  that. 

Wal.  We  will  turn  out  a  fox. 

Bel.   \aside'\.  As  a  bait  for  a  rat! 

Wal.  1  expect  you,  next  autumn!  Agreed  then:  good- 
day.  [Exit  Walpole. 


SCENE   III. 
Veasey,  Bellair. 

Bel.  Well,  I  don't  know  a  pleasanter  man  in  his  way; 
'Tis  no  wonder  his  friends  are  so  fond  of  their  chief. 

Vea.  That  you  are  not  among  them  is  matter  for  grief. 
Ah,  a  man  of  such  stake  in  the  land  as  yourself, 
Could  command  any  post  in  the  Court  of  the  Guelph. 

Bel.  No,  no;  I'm  appalled. 

Vea.  By  the  king?     Can  you  doubt  him? 

Bel.    I'm   appalled   by   these  Grorgons,  the  ladies  about 
him. 

Vea.    Good!    ha,   ha!    yes,   in  beauty   his   taste  may   be 
wrong, 
But  he  has  what  we  want,  sir,  a  government  strong. 

Bel.  Meaning  petticoat  government?     Mine  too  is  such, 
But  my  rulers  don't  frighten  their  subjects  so  much. 

Vea.  Nay,  your  rulers?     Why  plural!     Legitimate  sway 
Can  admit  but  one  ruler  to  love 

Bel.  And  obey. 

What  a  wife!     Constitutional  monarchy ?     Well, 

If  I  choose  my  own  sovereign  I  might  not  rebel. 

Bulwer,  Vol.  XXX  *M 


290  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  I 

Vea.  You  may  choose  at  your  will!     With  your  parts, 
wealth,  condition, 
You,  in  marriage,  could  link  all  the  ends  of  ambition. 
There  is  a  young  beauty — the  highest  in  birth, 
And  her  father,  the  Duke 

Bel  Oh,  a  Duke! 

Vea.  Knows  your  worth. 

Listen;  Walpole,  desiring  to  strengthen  the  Lords 
With  the  very  best  men  whom  the  country  affords. 
Has  implied  to  his  Grace  that  his  choice  should  be  clear. 

[Cai^elessly. 
If  you  wed  the  Duke's  daughter,  of  course  you're  a  peer. 

Bel.  With  the  Lords  and  the  lady  would  Walpole  ally  me? 

Vea.  Yes;  and  if  I  were  you 

Bel.  He  would  certainly  buy  me; 

But  I, — being  a  man [Bratvs  himself  iip  haughtily. 

Vea.  No  offence.     Why  that  frown? 

Bel.  [relapsing  into  his  habitual  ease].   Nay,   forgive  me. 
Tho'  man,  I'm  a  man  about  town; 
And  so  graceful  a  compliment  could  not  offend 
Any  man  about  town,  from  a  Minister's  friend. 
Still,  if  not  from  the  frailty  of  mortals  exempt, 
Can  a  mortal  be  tempted  where  sins  do  not  tempt? 
Of  my  rank  and  my  fortune  I  am  so  conceited, 
That  I  don't,  with  a  wife,  want  those  blessings  repeated. 
And  tho'  flattered  to  learn  I  should  strengthen  the  Peers — 
Give    me    still    our    rough    House   with    its    laughter    and 

cheers. 
Let  the  Lords  have  their  chamber — 1  grudge  not  its  powers; 
But  for  badgering  a  Minister  nothing  like  ours! 
Whisper  that  to  the  Minister; — sir,  your  obedient. 

[Turns  away. 


SCENE  IV]  WALPOLE  291 

Vea.  [aside].  Humph!    I  see  we  must  hazard  the  ruder 

expedient. 
If  some  Jacobite  pit  for  his  feet  we  can  dig, 
He  shall  hang  as  a  Tory,  or  vote- as  a  Whig. 

[YeaseY  retires  into  the  background. 
Bel.    [seating   himself].    Oh,    how    little    these    formalist 
middle-aged  schemers 
Know  of  us  the  bold  youngsters,  half  sages,  half  dreamers! 
Sages  half?     Yes,  because  of  the  time  rushing  on, 
Part  and  parcel  are  we:  they  belong  to  time  gone. 
Dreamers  half?     Yes,  because  in  a  woman's  fair  face 
We  imagine  the  heaven  they  find  in  a  place. 
At  this  moment  I,  courted  by  Whig  and  by  Tory, 
For  the  spangles  and  tinsel  which  clothe  me  with  glory, 
Am  a  monster  so  callous,  I  should  not  feel  sorrow 
If  an  earthquake  engulfed  Whig  and  Tory  to-morrow. 
"What  a  heartless  assertion!"  the  aged  would  say: 
True,  the  young  have  no  heart,  for  they  give  it  away. 
Ah,    I   love!    and    here — joy! — comes   the   man    who    may 
aid  me.  [Enter  Blount. 

SCENE  IV. 

Bellair,  Blount,  Veasey,  etc. 

Blount  [to  Coffee-house  loungers,  who  gather  round  him  as 
he  comes  down  the  stage].  Yes,  sir,  just  from  Guildhall, 
where  the  City  has  paid  me 
The  great  honor  I  never  can  merit  enough. 

Of  this  box,  dedicated  to  Yirtue 

[Coffee-house  loungers  gather  round. 
Vea.  And  snuif. 


292  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  I 

Blount.  Yes,  sir,  Higgins  the  Patriot,  who  deals  in  rappee, 
Stored  that  box  with  pulvillio,  superfluous  to  me: 
For  a  public  man  gives  his  whole  life  to  the  nation, 
And  his  nose  has  no  time  "for  a  vain  titillation. 

Vea.  On  the  dues  upon  coal — apropos  of  the  City — 

We  agreed 

Blount.  And  were  beat;  Walpole  bribed  the  Committee. 
Vea.   You  mistake;   he  leans  tow'rds  us,   and    begs  you 
to  call 
At  his  house — three  o'clock. 

Blount  [declaiming  as  if  in  Parliament'].  But  I  say,  once 
for  all. 

That  the  dues 

Vea.  Put  the  case  as  you  only  can  do, 

And  we  carry  the  question. 

Blount.  I'll  call,  sir,  at  two. 

Vea.  He  said  three. 

Blount.  I  say  tivo^  sir;  my  honor's  at  stake, 

To  amend  every  motion  that  Ministers  make. 

[Veasey  retires  into  the  background. 
Blount   [advancing   to    Bellair].    Young   debater,    your 
hand.     One  might  tear  into  shreds 
All  your  plea  for  not  cutting  off  Jacobite  heads; 
But    that    burst    against   Walpole    redeemed    your    whole 

speech, 
Be  but  honest,  and  high  is  the  fame  you  will  reach. 

Bel.  Blount,  your  praise  would  delight,  but  your  caution 

offends. 
Blount.   'Tis   my  way — I'm  plain  spoken  to  foes  and  to 
friends. 
What  are  talents  but  snares  to  mislead  and  pervert  you, 
Unless  they  converge  in  one  end — Public  Virtue! 


SCENE  IV]  WALPOLE  293 

Fine  debaters  abound:  we  applaud  and  despise  tnem; 
For  when  the  House  cheers  them  the  Minister  buys  them. 
Come,  be  honest,  I  say,  sir — away  with  all  doubt; 
Public  Virtue  commands!     Vote  the  Minister  out! 

Bel.  Public  Virtue  when   construed   means  private   am- 
bition. 

Blount.  This  to  me — to  a  Patriot 

Bel.  In  fierce  opposition; 

But  you  ask  for  my  vote. 

Blount.  England  wants  every  man. 

Bel.  Well,  tho'  Walpole  can't  buy  me,  I  think  that  you 
can. 
Blount,  I  saw  you  last  evening  cloaked  up  to  your  chin ; 
But  I  had  not  a  guess  who  lay,  perdu.,  within 
All  those  bales  of  broadcloth — when  a  gust  of  wind  rose. 
And  uplifting  your  beaver  it  let  out  your  nose. 

Blount  [someivhat  confusedly].  Yes,  I  always  am  cloaked — 
half  disguised,  when  1  go 
Certain  rounds — real  charity  hides  itself  so; 
For  one  good  deed  concealed  is  worth  fifty  paraded. 

Bel.  Finely  said.     Quitting,  doubtless,  the  poor  you  had 
aided, 
You  shot  by  me,  before  I  had  time  to  accost  you, 
Down  a  court  which  contains  but  one  house; — there  I  lost 
you. 

Blount.  One  house! 

Bel.  W  here  a  widow  named  Vizard 

Blount  [aside'].  1  tremble. 

Yes 

Bel.     Resides  with  an  angel 

Blount  [aside].  'Twere  best  to  dissemble. 

"With  an  angel!  bah!  say  with  a  girl — what's  her  name? 


294:  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  I 

Bel.  On  this  earth,  Lucy  Wilmot. 

Blount.  Eh!— Wilmot? 

Bel.  The  same. 

Blount   [after  a  short  pause].   And  how  knew  vqu  these 
ladies  ? 

Bel.  Will  you  be  my  friend? 

Blount.  I  ?  of  course.     Tell  me  all  from  beginning  to  end. 

Bel.   Oh,  my  story  is  short.     Just  a  fortnight  ago, 
Coming  home  tow'rds  the  night  from  my  club 

Blount.  Drunk  ? 

Bel.  So,  so. 

•'Help  me,  help!"  cries  a  voice — 'tis  a  woman's — I  run — 
Which  may  prove  I'd  drunk  less  than  I  often  have  done. 
And  I  find — but,  dear  Blount,  you  have  heard  the  renown 
Of  a  set  called  the  Mohawks? 

Blount.  The  scourge  of  the  town. 

A  lewd  band  of  night  savages,  scouring  the  street. 
Sword  in  hand, — and  the  terror  of  all  whom  they  meet 
Not  as  bad  as  themselves; — you  were  safe,  sir;  proceed. 

Bel.  In  the  midst  of  the  Mohawks  I  saw  her  and  freed 

Blount.  You  saw  her — Lucy  Wilmot — at  night,  and  alone? 

Bel.  No,  she  had  a  protector — the  face  of  that  crone. 

Blount.  Mistress  Vizard? 

Bel.  The  same,  yet,  tho'  strange  it  appear. 

When  the  rogues  saw  her  face  they  did  not  fly  in  fear. 
Brief — I  came,  saw,  and  conquered — but  own,  on  the  whole. 
That  my  conquest  was  helped  by  the  City  Patrol. 
1  escorted  them  home — at  their  threshold  we  part — 
And  I  mourn  since  that  night  for  the  loss  of  my  heart. 

Blount.  Did  you  call  the  next  day  to  demand  back  that 
treasure  ? 

Bel.  Yes. 


SCENE  IV]  WALPOLE  295 

Blount.    And  saw  the  young  lady? 

Bel.  I  had  not  that  pleasure; 

I  saw  the  old  widow,  who  told  me  politely 
That  her  house  was  too  quiet  for  visits  so  sprightly ; 
That  young  females  brought  up  in  the  school  of  propriety 
Must  regard  all  young  males  as  the  pests  of  society. 
I  will  spare  you  her  lectures,  she  showed  me  the  door, 
And  closed  it. 

Blount.  You've  seen  Lucy  Wilmot  no  more? 

Bel.  Pardon,  yes — very  often;  that  is,  once  a  day. 
Every  house  has  its  windows 

Blount.  Ah !  what  did  you  say  ? 

Bel.   Well,  by  words  very  little,  but  much  by  the  eyes. 
Now  instruct  me  in  turn, — from  what  part  of  the  skies 
Did  my  angel  descend?     What  her  parents  and  race? 
She  is  well-born,  no  doubt — one  sees  that  in  her  face. 
What  to  her  is  Dame  Yizard — that  awful  duenna, 
With  the  look  of  a  grifhness  fed  upon  senna? 
Tell  me  all.     Ho  there! — drawer,  a  pottle  of  clary! 

Blount.   Leave  in  peace  the  poor  girl  whom  you  never 
could  marry. 

Bel.  Why? 

Blount.    Her  station's   too   mean.      In   a   small   country 
town, 
Her  poor  mother  taught  music. 

Bel.  Her  father? 

[Drawer  places  wine  and  glasses  on  the  table. 

Blount.  Unknown. 

From  the  mother's  deathbed,  from  the  evil  and  danger 
That   might   threaten   her  youth,   she   was  brought  by  a 

Stranger 
To  the  house  of  a  lady  who 


296  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  I 

Bel.  Showed  me  the  door? 

Bloimt.  Till  instructed  to  live,  like  her  mother  before, 
As  a  teacher  of  music.     My  noble  young  friend, 
To  a  match  so  unmeet  you  could  never  descend. 
You  assure  me,  I  trust,  that  all  thought  is  dismist 
Of  a  love  so  misplaced. 

Bel.  Ko  [JiUing  Blount's  glass] — her  health! 

Blount.  You  persist? 

Dare  you,  sir,  to  a  man  of  my  tenets  austere, 
Ev'n  to  hint  your  designs  if  your  suit  persevere? 
What! — you  still  would  besiege  her? 

Bel.  Of  course,  if  I  love. 

Blount.  I  am  Virtue's  defender,  sir — there  is  my  glove. 

[F  lings  down  his  glove.,  and  rises  m  angry  excitement, 

Bel.    Noble   heart!      I   esteem    you    still    more   for  this 
heat. 
In  the  list  of  my  sins  there's  no  room  for  deceit; 
And  to  plot  against  innocence  helpless  and  weak — 
I'd  as  soon  pick  a  pocket! 

Blount.  What  mean  you  then?      Speak. 

Bel.  Blount,  I  mean  you  to  grant  me  the  favor  I  ask. 

Blount.  What  is  that? 

Bel.  To  yourself  an  agreeable  task. 

Since  you  know  this  Dame  Vizard,  you  call  there  to-daj, 
And  to  her  and  to  Lucy  say  all  I  would  say. 
You  attest  what  I  am — fortune,  quality,  birth, 
Adding  all  that  your  friendship  allows  me  of  worth. 
Blount,  I  have  not  a  father;  I  claim  you  as  one; 
You  will  plead  for  my  bride  as  you'd  speak  for  a  son. 
All  arranged — to  the  altar  we  go  in  your  carriage, 
And  I'll  vote  as  you  wish  the  month  after  my  marriage. 

Blount  [aside].  Can  I  stifle  my  fury? 


SCENE  IV]  WALPOLE  297 

Enter  Newsman  with  papers. 

Newsman.  Great  news! 

Bel.  Silence,  ape! 

[Coffee-house  loungers  rise  and  crowd  round  the  Newsman 
— Veasey  snatching  the  paper. 
Omnes.  Bead. 
Vea.  \reading'\.     "Lord  Nithsdale,  the  rebel,  has  made  his 

escape. 
His  wife,  by  permission  of  Walpole,  last  night 

Saw  her  Lord  in  the  Tower "  [^G-reat  sensation. 

Bel.  \to  Blount].  You  will  make  it  all  right. 

Vea.   [continuing'].  "And  the  traitor  escaped  in  her  mantle 

and  dress." 
Bel.  [to  Blount].  Now  my  fate's  in  your  hands — I  may 

count  on  you. 
Blount.  Yes. 


298  BULWERS    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  n 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I. 

A  room  in  Walpole's  house.     Pictures  on  the  wall.    A  large 

table  tvith  books,  papers,  etc. 

Walpole  and  Yeasey  seated. 

Wal.  And   so   Nithsdale's  escaped!     His   wife's    mantle 
and  gown; 
Well — ha,  ha!  let  us  hope  he's  now  out  of  this  town, 
And  in  safer  disguise  than  my  lady's  attire, 
Gliding  fast  down  the  Thames — which  he'll  not  set  on  fire. 

Vea.   All  your  colleagues  are  furious. 

Wal.                                             Ah,  yes;  if  they  catch  him, 
Not  a  hand  from  the  crown  of  the  martyr  could  snatch  him  I 
Of  a  martyr  so  pitied  the  troublesome  ghost 
"Would  do  more  for  his  cause  than  the  arms  of  a  host. 
These  reports  from  our  agents,  in  boro'  and  shire. 
Show  how  slowly  the  sparks  of  red  embers  expire. 
Ah !  what  thousands  will  hail  in  a  general  election 
The  wild  turbulent  signal  for 

Vea.  Fresh  insurrection. 

Wal.    [gravely].    Worse    than    that; — Civil    War! — at   all 
risk,  at  all  cost, 
We  must  carry  this  bill,  or  the  nation  is  lost. 

Vea.  Will  not  Tory  and  Roundhead  against  it  unite? 

Wal.  Every  man   has  his  price;   I  must  bribe  left  and 
right. 


SCENE  II]  WALPOLE  299 

So  you've  failed  with  Bellair — a  fresh  bait  we  must  try. 

As  for  BlouQt 

Enter  Servant. 

Serv.  Mr.  Blount. 

Wal.     Pray  admit  him.  Good-by.      [Exit  Veasey. 


SCENE  II. 
Walpole,  Blount. 

Blount.  Mr.  Walpole,  you  ask  my  advice  on  the  dues 
Which  the  City  imposes  on  coal. 

Wal.  Sir,  excuse 

That  pretence  for  some  talk  on  more  weighty  a  theme, 
With  a  man  who  commands 

Blount  [aside].  Forty  votes. 

Wal.  My  esteem. 

You're  a  patriot,  and  therefore  I  courted  this  visit. 
Hark!  your  country's  in  danger — great  danger,  sir. 

Blount  [dryly].  Is  it? 

Wal.  And  I  ask  you  to  save  it  from  certain  perdition. 

Blount.   Me! — I  am 

Wal.  Yes,  at  present  in  hot  opposition. 

But  what's  party?     Mere  cricket — some  out  and  some  in: 
1  have  been  out  myself.     At  that  time  I  was  thin, 
Atrabilious,  sir — jaundiced;  now,  rosy  and  stout. 
Nothing  pulls  down  a  statesman  like  long  fagging  out. 
And  to  come  to  the  point,  now  there's  nobody  by. 
Be  as  stout  and  as  rosy,  dear  Selden,  as  1. 
What!  when  bad  men  conspire,  shall  not  good  men  combine! 
There's  a  place — the  Paymastership — just  in  your  line; 


800  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  n 

I  may  say  that  the  fees  are  ten  thousand  a  year, 
Besides  extras — not  mentioned.      [Aside.'\    The  rogue  will 
cost  dear. 

Blount.  What  has  that,  sir,  to  do  with  the  national  danger 
To  which 

Wal  You're  too  wise  to  be  wholly  a  stranger. 

Need  I  name  to  a  man  of  your  Protestant  true  heart 
All  the  risks  we  yet  run  from  the  Pope  and  the  Stuart? 
And  the  indolent  public  is  so  unenlightened 
That  'tis  not  to  be  trusted,  and  scarce  to  be  frightened. 
When  the  term  of  this  Parliament  draws  to  its  close, 
Should  King  George  call  another,  'tis  filled  with  his  foes. 

Blount.   You  pay  soldiers  eno'  if  the  Jacobites  rise 

Wal.  But  a  Jacobite  House  would  soon  stop  their  sup- 
plies. 
There's  a  General,  on  whom  you  must  own,  on  reflection, 
The  Pretender  relies. 

Blount.  Who? 

Wal.  The  General  election. 

Blount.   That   election    must   come;    you   have   no   other 
choice. 
Would  you  juggle  the  People  and  stifle  its  voice? 

Wal.  That  is  just  what  young   men  fresh   from  college 
would  say. 
And  the  People's  a  very  good  thing  in  its  way. 
But  what  is  the  People? — the  mere  population? 
No,  the  sound-thinking  part  of  this  practical  nation, 
Who  support  peace  and  order,  and  steadily  all  poll 
For  the  weal  of  the  land! 

Blount  [aside].  In  plain  words,  for  Bob  Walpole. 

Wal.   Of   a   people   like   this   I've   no   doubts    nor  mis- 
trustings, 


SCENE  II]  WALPOLE  301 

But  I  have  of  the  fools  who  vote  wrong  at  the  hustings. 
Sir,  in  short,  I  am  always  frank-spoken  and  hearty, 
England  needs  all  the  patriots  that  go  with  your  party. 
We  must  make  the  three  years  of  this  Parliament  seven, 
And  stave  off  Civil  War.     You  agree? 

Blount.  Grracious  heaven  1 

Thus  to  silence  the  nation,  to  baffle  its  laws, 
And  expect  Selden  Blount  to  defend  such  a  cause! 
What  could  ever  atone  for  so  foul  a  disgrace? 

Wal.   Everlasting   renown — [aside]   and   the   Paymaster's 
place. 

Blount.  Sir,  your  servant — good-day;  I  am  not  what  you 
thought; 
I  am  honest 

Wal  Who  doubts  it? 

Blount.  And  not  to  be  bought 

Wal.  You  are  not  to  be  bought,  sir — astonishing  man! 
Let  us  argue  that  point.     If  creation  you  scan, 
You  will  find  that  the  children  of  Adam  prevail 
O'er  the  beasts  of  the  field  but  by  barter  and  sale. 
Talk  of  coals — if  it  were  not  for  buying  and  selling. 
Could  you  coax  from  Newcastle  a  coal  to  your  dwelling? 
You  would  be  to  your  own  fellowmen  good  for  nought, 
Were  it  true,  as  you  say,  that  you're  not  to  be  bought. 
If  you  find  men  worth  nothing — say,  don't  you  despise  them? 
And  what  proves  them  worth  nothing? — why,  nobody  buys 

them. 
But  a  man  of  such  worth  as  yourself!  nonsense — come, 
Sir,  to  business;  I  want  you — I  buy  you;  the  sum? 

Blount.  Is  corruption  so  brazen?  are  manners  so  base ? 

Wal.   [cLside].  That  means  he   don't   much  like  the  Pay- 
master's place.  [  With  earnestness  and  dignity. 


302  BULWERS    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ll 

Pardon,  Blount,  I  spoke  lightly;  but  do  not  mistake, — 

On  mine  honor,  the  peace  of  the  land  is  at  stake. 

Yes,  the  peace  and  the  freedom!    Were  Hampden  himself 

Living  still,  would  he  side  with  Stuart  or  Guelph? 

W  hen  the  Caesars  the  freedom  of  Rome  overthrew, 

All  its  forms  they  maintained — 'twas  its  spirit  they  slew! 

Shall  the  freedom  of  England  go  down  to  the  grave? 

No !  the  forms  let  us  scorn,  so  the  spirit  we  save. 

Blount.    England's   peace   and    her    freedom  depend   on 
your  bill  ? 

Wal.  \seriously].   Thou  know'st  it — and  therefore — 

Blount.  My  aid   you  ask  still? 

Wal.  Nay,  no  longer  1  ask,  'tis  thy  country  petitions. 

Blount.  You  talked  about  terms. 

Wal.  [pushing  pen  and  paper  to  him].  There,  then,  write 
your  conditions. 

[Blount  lurites,  folds   the  paper^  gives  it  to  Walpole, 
hows,  and  exit. 

Wal.   [reading].    "  'Mongst   the  men   who  are  bought  to 
save  England  inscribe  me. 
And  my  bribe  is  the  head  of  the  man  who  would  bribe  me." 
Eh!  my  head!    That  ambition  is  much  too  high-reaching; 
I  suspect  that  the  crocodile  hints  at  impeaching. 
And  he  calls  himself  honest!    What  highwayman's  worse? — 
Thus  to  threaten  my  life  when  I  offer  my  purse. 
Hem!  he  can't  be  in  debt,  as  the  common  talk  runs, 
For  the  man  who  scorns  money  has  never  known  duns. 
And  yet  have  him  I  must!     Shall  I  force  or  entice? 
Let  me  think — let  me  think;  every  man  has  his  price. 

[IJxit  Walpole. 


SCENE  III]  WALPOLE  303 


SCENE  III. 

A  room  in  Mrs.  "Vizard's  house.  At  the  hack  a  large  win- 
dow opening  on  a  balcony.  In  one  angle  of  the  room  a  smaU 
door.,  concealed  in  the  luainscoting .  In  another  angle  folding- 
doors .,  through  zvhich  the  visitors  enter.  At  each  of  the  side 
scenes  in  front,  another  door. 

Enter  Mrs.  Yizard. 

Mrs.  V.   'Tis  the  day  when  the  Jacobite  nobles  bespeak 

This  safe  room  for  a  chat  on  affairs  once  a  week. 

[Knock  without. 
Ah   they  come. 

Enter  two  Jacobite  Lords,  and  Nithsdale  disguised 
as  a  woman. 

Isi  J.  L.         Ma'am,  well  knowing  your  zeal  for  our  king, 
To  your  house  we  have  ventured  this  lady  to  bring. 
She  will  quit  you  at  sunset — nay,  haply,  much  sooner — 
For  a  voyage  to  France  in  some  trusty  Dutch  schooner. 
Hist! — her  husband  in  exile  she  goes  to  rejoin, 
And  our  homes  are  so  watched 

Mrs.  V.  That  she's  safer  in  mine. 

Come  with  me,  my  dear  lady,  I  have  in  my  care 
A  young  ward 

1st  J.    L.    \hastily\.    Who   must  see   her   not!     Till   we 
prepare 
Her  departure,  conceal  her  from  all  prying  eyes; 
She  is  timid,  and  looks  on  new  faces  as  spies. 


o'Oi  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  n 

Send  your  servant  on  business  that  keeps  her  away 

Until  nightfall; — her  trouble  permit  me  to  pay.    \_Oives  purse. 

Mrs.  V.   Nay,  my  lord,  I  don't  need 

1st  J.  L.  Quick,  your  servant  release. 

Mrs.  V.  I  will  send  her  to  Kent  with  a  note  to  my  niece. 

[Exit  Mrs.  Vizard. 
1st  J.  L.   [to  NiTH.].   Here  you're  safe;   still,   I  tremble 
until  you  are  freed; 
Keep  sharp  watch  at  the  window — the  signal's  agreed. 
When  a  pebble's  thrown  up  at  the  pane,  you  will  know 
'Tis  my  envoy; — a  carriage  will  wait  you  below. 
Nith.   And  if,  ere  you  can  send  him,  some  peril  befall? 
1st  J.  L.  Eisk  your  flight  to  the   inn   near  the  steps  at 
Blackwall. 

Re-enter  Mrs.  Vizard. 
Mrs.   V.   She  is  gone. 

Is^  J.  L.  Lead  the  lady  at  once  to  her  room. 

Mrs.  V.  [opening  door  to  right  of  side  scene].  No  man  dares 

enter  here. 
Nith.  [aside].     Where  she  sleeps,  I  presume. 

[Exeunt  Mrs.  Vizard  and  Nithsdale. 
2d.  J.  L.  You  still  firmly  believe,  tho'  revolt  is  put  down, 
That  King  James  is  as  sure  to  recover  his  crown? 

l5^.    J.   L.    Yes;  but   wait    till   this  Parliament's  close  is 
decreed. 
And  then  up  with  our  banner  from  Thames  to  the  Tweed. 

[Knock  at  the  street-door. 
Who  knocks?     Some  new  friend? 

Enter  Mrs.  Vizard. 
Mrs.  V.   [looking  out  of  the  window].   Oh!  quick — quick- 
do  not  stay! 
It  is  Blount. 


SCENE  IV]  WALPOLE  306 

Both  L.  What!— the  Eound head? 

Mrs.  V.  [opening  concealed  door  in  the  angle].  Here — here 

— the  back  way.  [Exit  Mrs.  Vizard. 

1st  J.  L.   [as  they  get  to  the  door].   Hush  I  and  wait  till  he's 

safe  within  doors. 
2d  J.  L.  But  our  foes 
She  admits? 
\st  J.  L.  By  my  sanction, — their  plans  to  disclose. 

[Exeunt  Jacobite  Lords  just  as  enter  Blount  and 
Mrs.  Vizard. 


SCENE   IV. 
Mrs.  Vizard,  Blount. 

Mrs.  V.  I  had  sent  out  my  servant;  this  is  not  your  hour. 

Blount.  Mistress  Vizard. 

Mrs.  V.  Sweet  sir!     [Aside.]  He  looks  horridly  sour. 

Blount.  1  enjoined  you,  when  trusting  my  ward  to  your 
care 

Mrs.  V.  To  conceal  from  herself  the  true  name  that  you 
bear. 

Blount.  And  she  still  has  no  guess 

Mrs.  V.  That  in  Jones,  christened  John, 

'Tis  the  great  Selden  Blount  whom  she  gazes  upon. 

Blount.   And  my  second  injunction 

Mrs.  V.  Which  was  duly  to  teach  her 

To  respect  all  you  say,  as  if  said  by  a  preacher. 

Blount.  A  preacher  1 — not  so;  as  a  man  she  should  rather 
Confide  in,  look  up  to,  and  love  as 

Mrs.  V.  A  father. 


806  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ll 

Blount.  Hold!     I  did  not  sav  "Father."     You  might,  for 
you  can 

Call  me 

Mrs.  V.         What? 

Blount.  Hang  it,  madam,  a  fine-looking  man. 

But  at  once  to  the  truth  which  your  cunning  secretes. 
How  came  Lucy  and  you,  ma'am,  at  night  in  the  streets? 

Mrs.  V.  I  remember.     Poor  Lucy  so  begged  and  so  cried — 
On  that  day,  a  year  since 

Blount.  Well! 

Mrs.  V.  Her  poor  mother  died; 

And  all  her  wounds  opened,  recalling  that  day: 
She  insisted — I  had  not  the  heart  to  say  nay — 
On  the  solace  religion  alone  can  bestow; 
So  I  led  her  to  church, — does  that  anger  you? 

Blount.  No! 

But  at  nightfall 

Mrs.  V.  I  knew  that  the  church  would  be  dark; 

And  thus  nobody  saw  us,  not  even  the  clerk. 

Blount.   And  returning 

Mrs.  V.  We  fell  into  terrible  danger. 

Sir,  the  Mohawks 

Blount.  I  know;  you  were  saved  by  a  stranger. 

He  escorted  you  home;  called  the  next  day,  I  hear. 

Mrs.  V.   But  I  soon  sent  him  off  with  a  flea  in  his  ear. 

Blount.  Since  that  day  the  young  villain  has  seen  her. 

Mrs.  V.  Oh  no! 

Blount.  Yes. 

Mrs.  V.         And  where? 

Blount.  At  the  window. 

Mrs.  V.  You  do  not  say  so! 

What  deceivers  girls  are?  how  all  watch  they  befool! 


SCENE  v]  WALPOLE  807 

One  should  marry  them  off,  ere  one  sends  them  to  school! 

Blount.  Ay,  I  think  you  are  right.     All  our  plans  have 
miscarried. 
Go ;  send  Lucy  to  me — it  is  time  she  were  married. 

\_Exit  Mrs.  Vizard  hy  door  to  left  of  side  scene. 

Blount.   When  I  first  took  this  orphan,  forlorn  and  alone, 
From  the  poor  village  inn  where  I  sojourned  unknown, 
My  compassion  no  feeling  more  sensitive  masked. 
She  was  grateful — that  pleased  me;  was  more  than  I  asked. 
'Twas  in  kindness  I  screened  myself  under  false  names. 
For  she  told  me  her  father  had  fought  for  King  James; 
And,  imbued  in  the  Jacobite's  pestilent  error, 
In  a  Roundhead  she  sees  but  a  bugbear  of  terror. 
And  from  me,  Selden  Blount,  who  invoked  our  free  laws 
To  behead  or  to  hang  all  who  side  with  that  cause, 
She  would  start  witli  a  shudder!     Oh,  fool!  how  above 
Human  weakness  I  thought  myself!     This,  then,  is  love! 
Heavens!  to  lose  her — resign  to  another  those  charms? 
No,  no!  never!     Why  yield  to  such  idle  alarms? 
What's  that  fop  she  has  seen  scarcely  once  in  a  way 
To  a  man  like  myself,  whom  she  sees  every  day  ? 
Mine  she  must  be!  but  howl — the  world's  laughter  I  dread. 
Tut!  the  world  will  not  know,  if  in  secret  we  wed. 

[Miter  Lucy  by  door  to  left  of  side  scene. 


SCENE    V. 

Blount,  Lucy. 

Lucy.  Dear  sir,  you  look  pale.     Are  you  ill? 
Blount.  Ay,  what  then? 

What  am  I  in  your  thoughts? 


308  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  n 

Lucy.  The  most  generous  of  men. 

Can  you  doubt  of  the  orphan's  respectful  affection, 
When  she  owes  ev'n  a  home  to  your  sainted  protection? 

Blount.    In   that  home  I   had  hoped  for  your  youth  to 
secure 
Safe  escape  from  the  perils  that  threaten  the  pure: 
But,  alas!  where  a  daughter  of  Eve  is,  I  fear 
That  the  serpent  will  still  be  found  close  at  her  ear. 

Lucy.  You  alarm  me! 

Blount.                          I  ought.     Ah,  what  danger  you  ran! 
You  have  seea — have  conversed  with 

Jjucy.  Well,  well. 

Blount.  A  young  man. 

Lucy.  Nay,  he  is  not  so  frightful,  dear  sir,  as  you  deem; 
•If  you  only  but  knew  him,  I'm  sure  you'd  esteem. 
He's  so  civil — so  pleasant — the  sole  thing,  I  fear. 
Is — heigh-ho!  are  fine  gentlemen  always  sincere? 

Blount.  You  are  lost  if  you  heed  not  the  words  that  I  say. 
Ah!  young  men  are  not  now  what  they  were  in  my  day. 
Then  their  fashion  was  manhood,  their  language  was  truth, 
And  their  love  was  as  fresh  as  a  world  in  its  youth; 
Now  they  fawn  like  a  courtier,  and  fib  like  his  flunkeys, 
And  their  hearts  are  as  old  as  the  faces  of  monkeys. 

Lucy.  Ah!  you  know  not  Sir  Sidney 

Blount.  His  nature  I  do, 

For  he  owned  to  my  friend  his  designs  upon  you. 

Lucy.  What  designs  ? 

Blount.  Of  a  nature  too  dreadful  to  name. 

Lucy.  How!     His  words  full  of  honor 

Blount.  Veiled  thoughts  full  of  shame. 

Heard   you  never  of  wolves    in    sheep's  clothing?      Why 
weep  ? 


SCENE  v]  WALPOLE  309 

Lucy.  Indeed,  sir,  he  don't  look  the  least  like  a  sheep. 

Blount.   No,   the  sheepskin    for  clothing   much   finer   he 
trucks; 
Wolves  are  nowaday  clad  not  as  sheep — but  as  bucks. 
'Tis  a  false  heart  you  find  where  a  fine  dress  you  see, 
And  a  lover  sincere  in  a  plain  man  like  me. 
Dismiss  then,  dear  child,  this  young  beau  from  your  mind — 
A  young  beau  should  be  loathed  by  good  young  womankind. 
At  the  best  he's  a  creature  accustomed  to  roam; 
'Tis  at  sixty  man  learns  how  to  value  a  home. 
Idle  fancies  throng  quick  at  your  credulous  age. 
And  their  cure  is  companionship,  cheerful  but  sage; 
So,  in  future,  I'll  give  you  much  more  of  my  own. 
Weeping  still! — I've  a  heart,  and  it  is  not  of  stone. 

Lucy.  Pardon,   sir,  these  vain  tears;  nor  believe  that  I 
mourn 
For  a  false-hearted 

Blount.  Coxcomb,  who  merits  but  scorn. 

We  must  give  you  some  change— purer  air,  livelier  scene — 
And  your  mind  will  soon  win  back  its  temper  serene. 
You  must  quit  this  dull  court  with  its  shocking  lookout. 
Yes,  a  cot  is  the  home  of  contentment,  no  doubt. 
A  sweet  cot  with  a  garden — walled  round — shall  be  ours, 
Where  our  hearts  shall  unite  in  the  passion — for  flowers. 
Ah!  I  know  a  retreat,  from  all  turmoil  remote. 
In  the  suburb  of  Lambeth — soon  reached  by  a  boat. 
So  that  every  spare  moment  to  business  not  due 
I  can  give,  my  sweet  Lucy,  to  rapture  and  you, 

Lucy.  What  means  he?     His  words   and  his   looks   are 
alarming; 
Mr.  Jones,  you're  too  good! 

Blount.  What ! — to  find  you  so  charming  ? 


310  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  n 

Yes;  tho'  Fortuae  has  placed  my  condition  above  you, 
Yet  Love  levels  all  ranks.     Be  not  startled — I  love  you. 
From  all  dreams  less  exalted  your  fancies  arouse; 
The  poor  orphan  I  raise  to  the  rank  of  my  spouse. 

Lucy.  What!     His  spouse!     Do  I  dream? 

Blount.  Till  that  moment  arrives, 

Train  your  mind  to  reflect  on  the  duty  of  wives. 
I  must  see  Mistress  Vizard,  and  all  things  prepare; 
To  secure  our  retreat  shall  this  day  be  my  care. 
And — despising  the  wretch  who  has  caused  us  such  sorrow — 
Our  two  lives  shall  unite  in  the  cottage  to-morrow. 

Lucy.  Pray  excuse  me — this  talk  is  so  strangely 

Blount.  Delightful! 

Lucy   [aside].  I  am  faint;    I  am   all  of  a  tremble:    how 
frightful!  [Exit  through  side  door  to  left. 

Blount.   Grood;   my  mind  overawes  her!     From  fear  love 
will  grow, 
And  by  this  time  to-morrow  a  fig  for  the  beau.    [Calling  out. 
Mistress  Vizard!  [Enter  Mrs.  Vizard. 


SCENE   VI. 
Blount,  Mrs.  Vizard. 

Blount.  Guard  well  my  dear  Lucy  to-day, 

For  to-morrow  I  free  you,  and  bear  her  away. 
I  agree  with  yourself — it  is  time  she  were  married. 
And  I  only  regret  that  so  long  I  have  tarried. 
Eno' ! — I've  proposed. 

Mrs.  V.  She  consented  ? 

Blount.  Of  course; 

Must  a  man  like  myself  get  a  wife,  ma'am,  by  force? 


SCENE  VI]  WALPOLE  311 

Neivsman  [without,  ringing  a  bell].   Great  News. 

Mrs.    V.    [running  to  the  window,  listening  and  repeating]. 

Wbat!  "Lord  Nithsdale  escaped  from  the  tower." 

[NiTHSDALE  ^eej9S  through  the  door  of  his  room. 

"lu  his  wife's  clothes  disguised! — the  gown  gray,  with  red 

flower, 
Mantle  black,  trimmed  with  ermine."     My  hearing  is  hard. 
Mr.  Blount,  Mr.  Blount!     Do  you  hear  the  reward  ? 

Blount.  Yes;  a  thousand 

Mrs.   V.  What! — guineas? 

Blount.  Of  course;  come  away. 

I  go  now  for  the  parson — do  heed  what  I  say. 

[NiTHSDALE  shakes  his  fist  at  Mrs.  Vizard,  and  retreats. 
We  shall  marry  to-morrow — no  witness  but  you; 
For  the  marriage  is  private.     I'm  Jones  still.     Adieu! 

[Exit  Blount. 
[Lucy  peeps  out. 
Mrs.  V.  Ha!  a  thousand  gold  guineas! 

[Locks  NiTHSDALE 's  door. 

Be-enter  Blount. 

Blount.  Guard  closely  my  treasure. 

That's  her  door;  for  precaution,  just  lock  it. 
Mrs.  V.  With  pleasure. 

[As  she  shows  out  Blount,  Lucy  slips  forth. 
Lucy.  Eh!  locked  up!     No,  I  yet  may  escape  if  I  hide. 

[Gets  behind  the  window-curtains. 

Be-enter  Mrs.  Vizard. 

Mrs.  V.  Shall  I  act  on  this  news?    I  must  quickly  decide. 
Surely  Nithsdale  it  is!     Gray  gown,  sprigged  with  red; 


312  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  u 

Did  not  walk  like  a  woman — a  stride,  not  a  tread. 

[Locks  Lucy's  door. 
Both  my  lambs  are  in  fold;  I'll  steal  out  and  inquire. 
Robert  Walpole  might  make  the  reward  somewhat  higher. 

[Uxit  Mrs.  Vizard. 
Lucy  [looking  out  from  the  tvindoiv].   She  has  locked  the 
street-door.     She  has  gone  with  the  key, 
And  the  servant  is  out.     No  escape;  woe  is  me! 
How  I  love  him!     And  yet  I  must  see  him  with  loathing. 
Why  should  wolves  be  disguised  in  such  beautiful  clothing? 
Niths.  [knocking  violently].   Let  me  out.     I'll   not  perish 
entrapped.     From  your  snare 

Thus  I  break 

[^Bursts  the  door^  and  comes  out  brandishing  a  poker. 
Treacherous  hag! 


SCENE   YII. 

Lucy,   Nithsdale. 

Lucy.  'Tis  the  wolf.     Spare  me;  spare! 

[Kneeling,  and  hiding  her  face. 
Niths.  She's  a  witch,  and  has  changed  herself! 
Lucy.  Do  not  come  near  me. 

Niths.  Nay,  young  lady,  look  up! 
Lucy.  'Tis  a  woman! 

Niths.  Why  fear  me? 

Perchance,  like  myself,  you're  a  prisoner? 

Lucy.  Ah  yes! 

Niths.  And  your  kinsfolk  are  true  to  the  Stuart,  I  guess. 
Lucy.  My  poor  father  took  arms  for  King  James. 
Niths.  So  did  I. 


SCENE  VII]  WALPOLE  313 

Lucy.   You! — a  woman!     How  brave! 

Niths.  For  that  crime  I  must  die 

If  vou  will  not  assist  me. 

Lucy.  Assist  you — how  ?     Say. 

Niths.  That  she-Judas  will  sell  me,  and  goes  to  betray. 

Lucy.  Fly!     Alas!  she  has  locked  the  street-door! 

Niths.  Lady  fair, 

Does  not  Love  laugh  at  locksmiths?    Well,  so  does  Despairl 

[^Glancing  at  the  window. 
Flight  is  here.     But  this  dress  my  detection  insures. 
If  I  could  but  exchange  hood  and  mantle  for  yours! 
Dare  I  ask  you  to  save  me? 

Lucy.  Nay,  doubt  not  my  will; 

But  my  door  is  locked. 

Niths.  [raising  the  pokey-].   And  the  key  is  here  still. 

[Bursts  the  door  of  Lucy's  room  and  e^iters. 

Lucy.  I  have  read  of  the  Amazons;  this  must  be  one. 

Niths.  [coming  from  the  door  with  hood,  goivn,  and  mantle 
on  his  arm].  I  have  found  all  I  need  for  the  risk  I  must 
run. 

Lucy.   Can  I  help  you  ? 

Niths.  Heaven  bless  thee,  sweet  Innocence,  no. 

Haste,  and  look  if  no  back  way  is  open  below. 
Stay;  your  father  has  served  the  king  over  the  water; 
And    this   locket    may    please    your    brave    father's    true 

daughter — 
The  gray  hair  of  poor  Charles,  intertwined  with  the  pearl. 
Go;  vouchsafe  me  this  kiss. 

[Kissing  her  hand,  and  exit  luithin  the  door. 

Lucy.  What  a  wonderful  girl! 


Bulwer,  Vol.  XXX  *N 


314  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  n 


SCENE   VIII. 

The  exterior  of  Mrs.  Vizard's  house.  Large  window. 
Balcony^  area  rails  below.  A  court.  Dead  walls  for  side 
scenes^  with  blue  posts  at  each  end,  through  which  the  actors 
enter. 

Enter  Blount. 

Blount.  For  the  curse  of  celebrity  nothing  atones. 
The  sharp  parson  1  call  on,  as  simple  John  Jones, 
Has  no  sooner  set  eyes  on  my  popular  front. 
Than  he  cries,  "Ha!  the  Patriot,  the  great  Selden  Blount!" 
Mistress  Vizard  must  hunt  up  some  priest  just  from  Cam, 
"Who  may  gaze  on  these  features,  nor  guess  who  I  am. 

[Knochs. 

Not  at  home.     Servant  out  too!     Ah!  gone  forth,  I  guess, 
To  enchant  the  young  bride  with  a  new  wedding-dress. 
I  must  search  for  a  parson  myself. 

[^Enter  Bellair  from  the  opposite  side. 


SCENE   IX. 
Blount,  Bellair. 

Bel.  [slapping  hitn  on  the  shoulder].   Blount,  your  news? 

Blount.   You!  and  here,  sir!     What  means 

Bel.  My  impatience  excuse. 

You  have  seen  her  ? 

Blount.  I  have. 

Bel.  And  have  pleaded  my  cause: 

And  of  course  she  consents,  for  she  loves  me?     You  pause. 

Blount.  Nay,  alas!  my  dear  friend 


SCENE  IX]  WALPOLE  315 

Bel.  Speak  and  tell  me  my  fate. 

Blount.  Quick  and  rash  though  your  wooing  be,  it  is  too 
late ; 
She  has  promised  her  hand  to  another.     Bear  up! 

Bel.  There  is  many  a  slip  'twixt  the  lip  and  the  cup. 
Ah!  my  rival  I'll  fight.     Say  his  name  if  you  can. 

Blount.  Mr.  Jones.     I  am  told  he's  a  fine-looking  man. 
Bel.   His  address? 

Blount.  Wherefore  ask?     You  kill  her  in  this  duel — 

Slay  the  choice  of  her  heart! 

Bel.  Of  her  heart;  you  are  cruel. 

But  if  so,  why,  Heaven  bless  her! 

Blount.  My  arm — come  away ! 

Bel.  No,  my  carriage  waits  yonder.     I  thank  you.    Good- 
day.  [JExit. 
Blount.  He  is  gone;  I  am  safe — [shaking  his  left  hand  with 
his  right]   wish  you  joy,  my  dear  Jones!                     [Exit. 
[NiTHSDALE,    disguised   in    Lucy's    dress    and    mantle, 
opens  the  loindow. 
Niths.   All  is  still.     How  to  Jump  without  breaking  my 
bones?     [Trying  to  flatten  his  petticoats.,  and  with  one  leg 
over  the  balcony. 
Curse  these  petticoats!     Heaven,  out  of  all  my  lost  riches, 
Why  couldst  thou  not  save  me  one  thin  pair  of  breeches! 
Steps!                                               [Oets  hack — shuts  the  window. 

Re-enter  Bellair. 

Bel.   But  Blount  may  be  wrong.    From  her  own  lips  alone 
Will  1  learn.  [Looking  up  at  the  windoio. 

I  see  some  one;  I'll  venture  this  stone. 
[Picks  up,  and  throws,  a  pebble  at  the  window. 
Niths.   [opening  the  ivindoiu].  Joy! — the  signal! 


316  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  ll 


SCENE   X. 

Bellair,  Nithsdale. 

Bel.   'Tis  you;  say  my  friend  was  deceived. 

[NiTHSDALE  makes  an  affirmative  sign. 

You  were  snared  into 

Niths.  Hush! 

Bel.  Could  you  guess  how  I  grieved! 

But  oh!  fly  from  this  jail;  I'm  still  full  of  alarms. 
I've  a  carriage  at  hand:  trust  yourself  to  these  arms. 

[NiTHSDALE  tucks  up  his  petticoats^  gets  down  the  balcony 
backward^  setting  his  foot  on  the  area  rail. 
Bel.  Powers  above! — what  a  leg! 

[Lord  Nithsdale  tu7-ns  round  on  the  7-ail,  rejects  Bel- 
lair's  hand,  and  jumps  down. 
Bel.  Oh,  my  charmer!  one  kiss. 

Niths.  Are  you  out  of  your  senses  ? 
Bel.   [trying  to  pull  up  her  hood].     With  rapture! 
Niths.   \striking  him].  Take  this! 

Bel.  What  a  fist!     If  it  hits  one  so  hard  before  marriage 
What  would  it  do  after? 

Niths.  Quick — where  is  the  carriage? 

Now,  sir,  give  me  your  hand. 

Bel.  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  do 

Till  I  snatch  my  first  kiss! 

'[Lifts  the  hood  and  recoils  astounded. 
Who  the  devil  are  you? 
[NiTHSDALE  t7'ies  to  get  from  him,.     A  struggle.     Bel- 
lair prevails. 
Bel.  I  will  give  you  in  charge,  or  this  moment  confess 
How  you  pass  as  my  Lucy,  and  wear  her  own  dress? 


SCENE  X]  WALPOLE  317 

Niths.   [aside].  What!     His  Lucy?     I'm  saved. 

To  her  pity  I  owe 
This  last  chance  for  my  life;  would  you  sell  it,  sir? 

Bel.  No. 

But  your  life!     What's  your  name?     Mine  is  Sidney  Bel- 
lair. 

Niths.  Who  in  Parliament  pleaded  so  nobly  to  spare 
From  the  axe 

Bel.  The  chiefs  doomed  in  the  Jacobite  rise? 

Niths.   [loith  dignity].  I  am  Nithsdale.     Quick — sell  me  or 
free  me — time  flies. 

Bel.  Come  this  way.     There's  my  coach:  I  will  take  you 
myself 
Where  you  will; — ship  you  off. 

Niths.  Do  you  side  with  the  Gruelph? 

Bel  Yes.     What  then  ? 

Niths.  You  would  risk  your  own  life  by  his  laws, 

Did  you  ship  me  to  France.     They  who  fight  in  a  cause 
Should  alone  share  its  perils.     Farewell,  generous  stranger! 

Bel.  Pooh!  no  gentleman  leaves  a  young  lady  in  danger; 
You'd  be  mobbed  ere  you  got  half  a  yard  through  the  town; 
Why,  that  stride  and  that  calf — let  me  settle  your  gown. 

[Clinging  to  him,  and  half  spoken  loithout. 
No,  no;  I  will  see  you  at  least  to  my  carriage.  [Behind  scene. 
To  what  place  shall  it  drive? 

Niths.  To  Blackwall. 

Enter  LuCY  from  the  window. 
Lucy.  Hateful  marriage! 

But  where's  that  poor  lady?     What! — gone?     She  is  free! 
Could  she  leap  from  the  window?     I  wish  I  were  she. 

[Retreats. 


818  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ii 


SCENE   XI. 
Bellair,  Lucy. 

Bel.  Now  she's  safe  in  my  coach,  on  condition,  I  own, 
Not  flattering,  sweet  creature,  to  leave  her  alone. 

Lucy  [peeping].  It  is  he. 

Bel.  Ah!  if  Lucy  would  only  appear! 

[Stoops  to  pick  up>  a  stone,  and  in  the  act  to  fling  as  LuCY 
comes  out. 
Oh,  my  Lucy! — mine  angel! 

Lucy.  Why  is  he  so  dear? 

Bel.  Is  it  true?     From  that  face  am  I  evermore  banished? 
In  your  love  was  the  dream  of  my  life!     Is  it  vanished? 
Have  you  pledged  to  another  your  hand  and  your  heart? 

Lucy.  Not  my  heart.     Oh,  not  that. 

Bel.  But  your  hand  ?     By  what  art, 

By  what  force,  are  you  won  heart  and  hand  to  dissever, 
And  consent  to  loathed  nuptials  that  part  us  forever? 

Lucy.   Would  that  pain  you  so  much? 

Bel.  Can  you  ask?     Oh,  believe  me, 

You're  my  all  in  the  world! 

Lucy.  I  am  told  you  deceive  me; 

That  you  harbor  designs  which  my  lips  dare  not  name. 
And  your  words  full  of  honor  veil  thoughts  full  of  shame. 
Ah,  sir!  I'm  so  young  and  so  friendless — so  weak! 
Do  not  ask  for  my  heart  if  you  take  it  to  break, 

Bel.  Who  can  slander  me   thus?     Not  my  friend,  I  am 
sure. 


SCENE  XI]  WALPOLE  319 

Lucy.  His  friend! 

Bel.  Can  my  love  know  one  feeling  impure 

When  I  lay  at  your  feet  all  I  have  in  this  life — 
Wealth  and  rank,  name  and  honor — and  woo  you  as  wife? 

Lucy.   As  your  wife!    All  about  you  seems  so  much  above 
My  mean  lot 

Bel.  And  so  worthless  compared  to  your  love. 

You  reject,  then,  this  suitor  ? — my  hand  you  accept  ? 

Lucy.  Ah!  but  do  you  not  see  in  what  prison  I'm  kept? 
And  this  suitor 

Bel.  You  hate  him! 

Lucy.  Till  this  day,  say  rather 

Bel.  What?  ^ 

Lucy.  1  loved  him. 

Bel.  You  loved! 

Lucy.  As  I  might  a  grandfather. 

He  has  shielded  the  orphan; — I  had  not  a  notion 
That  he  claimed  from  me  more  than  a  grandchild's  devotion! 
And  my  heart  ceased  to  beat  between  terror  and  sorrow 
When  he  said  he  would  make  me  his  wife,  and  to-morrow. 

Bel.  Fly  with  me  and  at  once ! 

Lucy.  She  has  locked  the  street  door. 

Bel.   And  my  angel's  not  made  to  jump  down  from  that 
floor. 
Listen — quick;  I  hear  voices: — 1  save  you;  this  night 
1  arrange  all  we  need  both  for  wedlock  and  flight. 
At  what  time  after  dark  does  your  she-dragon  close 
Her  sweet  eyes,  and  her  household  consign  to  repose  ? 

Lucy.   About  nine  in  this  season  of  winter.     What  then? 

Bel.   By  the  window   keep  watch.     When   the  clock   has 
struck  ten 
A  slight  stone  smites  the  casement; — below  I  attend. 


320  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  il 

You  will  see  a  safe  ladder;  at  once  you  descend. 

We  then  reach  your  new  home,  priest  and  friends  shall  be 

there, 
Proud  to  bless  the  young  bride  of  Sir  Sidney  Bellair. 
Hush!  the  steps  come  this  way;  do  not  fail!     She  is  won. 

[Exit  Bellair. 
Lucy.  Stay;- — I  tremble  as  guilty.     Heavens!  what  have 
I  done  ? 


SCENE  n]  WALPOLE  321 


ACT  III.— SCENE  I. 

St.  Jameses  Park.     Seats,  etc.     Time — Sunset. 

Enter  Blount. 
Blount.  So  the  parson  is  found  and  the  cottage  is  hired — 
Every  fear  was  dispelled  when  my  rival  retired. 
Ev'n  my  stern  mother  country  must  spare  from  my  life 
A  brief  moon  of  that  honey  one  tastes  with  a  wife! 
And  then  strong  as  a  giant,  recruited  by  sleep, 
On  corruption  and  Walpole  my  fury  shall  sweep. 
'Mid  the  cheers  of  the  House  I  will  state  in  my  place 
How  the  bribes  that  he  proffered  were  flung  in  his  face. 
Men  shall  class  me  amid  those  examples  of  worth 
Which,  alas!  become  daily  more  rare  on  this  earth; 
And  Posterity,  setting  its  brand  on  the  front 
Of  a  Walpole,  select  for  its  homage  a  Blount. 

[E)iter  Bell  AIR,  singing  gayly. 

SCENE   II. 

Blount,  Bellair. 

Bel.  "The  dove  builds  where  the  leaves  are  still  green  on 

the  tree " 

Blount  [I'ising'].   Ha! 

Bel.  "For  May  and  December  can  never  agree." 

Blount.  I  am  glad  you've  so  quickly  got  over  that  blow. 
Bel.  Fallala! 


322  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  hi 

Blount  [aside].  What  this  levity  means  I  must  know. 
The  friend  I  best  loved  was  your  father,  Bellair — 
Let  me  hope  your  strange  mirth  is  no  laugh  of  despair. 

Bel.  On  the  wit  of  the  wisest  man  it  is  no  stigma 
If  the  heart  of  a  girl  is  to  him  an  enigma; 
That  my  Lucy  was  lost  to  my  arms  you  believed — 
Wish  me  joy,  my  dear  Blount,  you  were  grossly  deceived. 
She  is  mine! — What  on  earth  are  you  thinking  about? 
Do  you  hear  ? 

Blount.  I  am  racked! 

Bel.  What? 

Blount,  A  twinge  of  the  gout. 

[Reseating  himself. 
Pray  excuse  me. 

Bel.  Nay,  rather  myself  I  reproach 

For  not  heeding  your  pain.     Let  me  call  you  a  coach. 

Blount.  Nay,  nay,  it  is  gone.     I  am  eager  to  hear 
How   I've    been   thus   deceived — make   my   blunder   more 

clear. 
You  have  seen  her? 

Bel.                       Of  course.     From  her  own  lips  I  gather 
That  your  good  Mr.  Jones  might  be  Lucy's  grandfather. 
Childish  fear  or  of  Vizard — who  seems  a  virago — 
Or  the  old  man  himself 

Blount.  Oh ! 

Bel.  You  groan  ? 

Blount.  The  lumbago! 

Bel.  Ah!  they  say  gout  is  shifty — now  here  and  now  there. 

Blount.   Pooh;  continue.     The  girl  then 

Bel.  I  found  in  despair. 

Bat  no  matter — all's  happily  settled  at  last. 

Blount.   Ah!  eloped  from  the  house? 


SCENE  III]  WALPOLE  323 

Bel.  No,  the  door  was  made  fast. 

But  to-night  I  would  ask  you  a  favor. 

Blount.  What?     Say. 

Bel.  If  your  pain  should  have  left  you,  to  give  her  away. 
For  myself  it  is  meet  that  1  take  every  care 
That  my  kinsfolk  shall  hail  the  new  Lady  Bellair. 
I've  induced  my  two  aunts  (who  are  prudish)  to  grace 
With  their  presence  my  house,  where  the  nuptials  take  place. 
And  to  act  as  her  father  there's  no  man  so  fit 
As  yourself,  dear  old  Blount,  if  the  gout  will  permit. 

Blount.   'Tis  an  honor 

Bel.  Suy  pleasure. 

Blount.  Great  pleasure!     Proceed. 

How  is  she^  if  the  door  be  still  fast,  to  be  freed? 
Is  the  house  to  be  stormed? 

Bel.  Nay;  I  told  you  before 

That  a  house  has  its  windows  as  well  as  its  door. 
And  a  stone  at  the  pane  for  a  signal  suffices. 
While  a  ladder 

Blount.                     I  see.     [Aside.']  What  infernal  devices! 
H;is  she  no  maiden  fear 

Bel.  From  the  ladder  to  fall  ? 

Ask  her  that — when  we  meet  at  my  house  in  Whitehall. 

[Enter  1st  Jacobite  Lord. 

SCENE   III. 
Blount,  Bellair,  1st  Jacobite,  afterward  Veasey. 

J.  L.  [giving  note  to  Bellair].  If  I  err  not,  I  speak  to  Sir 
Sidney  Bellair? 
Pray  vouchsafe  me  one  moment  in  private. 

[Draws  him  aside. 


824  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  m 

Blount  Despair ! 

How  prevent  ? — how  forestall  ?     Could  1  win  but  delay, 
I  might  yet  brush  this  stinging  fly  out  of  my  way. 

[While  he  speaks,  enter  Veasey  in  the  background. 

Vea.  Bellair  whispering  close  with  that  Jacobite  lord 

Are  they  hatching  some  plot? 

[Hides  behind  the  trees — listening. 

Bel.  [reading].  So  he's  safely  on  board 

J.  L.  And   should   Fortune   shake   out   other   lots  from 
her  urn, 
We,  poor  friends  of  the  Stuart,  might  serve  you  in  turn. 
You  were  talking  with  Blount — Selden  Blount — is  he  one 
Of  your  friends? 

Bel.  Ay,  the  truest. 

J.  L.  Then  warn  him  to  shun 

That  vile  Jezebel's  man-trap — I  know  he  goes  there. 
Whom  she  welcomes  she  sells. 

Bel.  I  will  bid  him  beware. 

[Shakes  hands.     Exit  Jacobite  Lord. 

Bel.  [to  Blount].   1   have  Just   learned  a  secret,    'tis  fit 
I  should  tell  you. 
Go  no  more  to  old  Vizard's,  or  know  she  will  sell  you. 
Nithsdale  hid  in  her  house  when  the  scaffold  he  fled. 
She  received  him,  and  went  for  the  price  on  his  head; 

But — the  drollest  mistake — of  that  tale  by  and  by 

He  was  freed;  is  safe  now! 

Blount.  Who  delivered  him? 

Bel.  I. 

Blonnt.   Ha! — you  did! 

Bel.  See,  he  sends  me  this  letter  of  thanks. 

Blount  [reading].    Which    invites   you    to   join  with   the 
Jacobite  ranks. 


SCENE  IV]                                   WALPOLE  825 

And  when  James  has  his  kingdom 


Bel.  That  chance  is  remote; 

Blount.  Hints  an  earldom  for  you. 

Bel.  Bah! 

Blount.  Take  care  of  this  note. 

[Ap2:)ears  to  thrust  it  into  Bellair's  coat-pocket — lets  it 
fall,  and  puts  his  foot  on  it. 
Bel.  Had  I  guessed  that  the  hag  was  so  greedy  of  gold, 
Long  ago  I  had  bought  Lucy  out  of  her  hold; 
But  to-night  the  dear  child  will  be  free  from  her  power. 
Adieu!  1  expect  you  then. 
Blount.  Hold!  at  what  hour? 

Bel.  By  the  window  at  ten,  self  and  ladder  await  her; 
The  wedding — eleven;  you  will  not  be  later.  [£Jxit. 

Blount  [picking  up  the  letter].   Nitbsdale's  letter.     Bright 
thought! — and  what  luck!     I  see  Yeasey. 

Re-enter  Bellair. 

Bel.  Blount,  I  say,  will  old  Jones  be  to-morrow  uneasy? 
Can't  you  fancy  his  face? 

Blount.  Yes;  ha!  ha! 

Bel.  I  am  off.       [Exit. 

SCENE    IV. 
Blount,  Veasey. 

Blount.  What?    shall  I,  Selden  Blount,  be  a  popinjay's 
scoff? 
Mr.  Yeasey,  your  servant. 

Vea.  I  trust,  on  the  whole, 

That  you've  settled  with  Walpole  the  prices  of  coal. 


826  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  hi 

Blount.  Coals  be — lighted  below!     Sir,  the  country's  in 
danger. 

Vea.  To  that  fact  Walpole  says  that  no  patriot's  a  stranger. 

Blount.  With  the  safety  of  England  myself  I  will  task, 
If  you  hold  yourself  licensed  to  grant  what  I  ask. 

Vea.  Whatsoever  the  terms  of  a  patriot  so  stanch, 
Walpole  gives  you— I  speak  as  his  proxy — carte  blanche. 

Blount,  If  I  break  private  ties  wliere  the  Public's  at  stake, 
Still  my  friend  is  my  friend:  the  condition  I  make 
Is  to  keep  him  shut  up  from  all  share  in  rash  strife, 
And  secure  him  from  danger  to  fortune  and  life. 

Vea.  Blount — agreed.     And  this  friend?     Scarce  a  mo- 
ment ago 
I  marked  Sidney  Bellair  in  close  talk  with 

Blount.  I  know. 

There's  a  plot  to  be  checked  ere  it  start  into  shape. 
Hark!  Bellair  had  a  hand  in  Lord  Nithsdale's  escape! 

Vea.  That's  abetment  of  treason. 

Blount.  Read  this,  and  attend. 

[Gives  Nithsdale's  note  to  Bellair,  which  Veasey  reads. 
Snares  atrocious  are  set  to  entrap  my  poor  friend 
In  an  outbreak  to  follow  that  Jacobite's  flight 

Vea.   In  an  outbreak.     Where  ? — when  ? 

Blount.  Hush!  in  London  to-night. 

He  is  thoughtless  and  young.     Act  on  this  information, 
Quick — arrest  him  at  once;  and  watch  over  the  nation. 

Vea.  No  precaution  too  great  against  men  disaffected. 

Blount.  And  the  law  gives  you  leave  to  confine  the  sus- 
pected. 

Vea.  Ay,  this  note  will  suffice  for  a  warrant.     Be  sure, 
Ere  the  clock  strike  the  quarter,  your  friend  is  secure. 

\_Exit  Veasey. 


SCENE  V]  WALPOLE  327 

Blount.  Good;  my  rival  to-niglit  will  be  swept  from  my 
way, 
And  John  Jones  shall  wake  easy  eno'  the  next  day. 
Do  I  still  love  this  girl  ?     No,  my  hate  is  so  strong, 
That  to  me,  whom  she  mocks,  she  alone  shall  belong. 
I  need  trust  to  that  salable  Vizard  no  more. 
Ha!  I  stand  as  Bellair  the  bride's  window  before. 
Oh,  when  love  comes  so  late  how  it  maddens  the  brain, 
Between  shame  for  our  folly,  and  rage  at  our  pain!       [Exit 


SCENE    V. 
Room  in  Walpoles  house.     [Lights. '\ 

Eater  Walpole. 

Wal.  So  Lord  Nithsdale's  shipped  oft'.     There's  an  end 

of  one  trouble; 
When  his  head's  at  Boulogne  the  reward  shall  be  double. 
[Seating  himself^  takes  up  a  book — glances  at  it,  and  throws 

it  down. 
Staff!     I  wonder  what  lies  the  Historians  will  tell 
When  they  babble  of  one  Robert  Walpole!     Well,  well, 
Let  them  sneer  at  his  blunders,  declaim  on  his  vices. 
Cite  the  rogues  whom  he  purchased,  and  rail  at  the  prices, 
They  shall  own  that  all  lust  for  revenge  he  withstood; 
And,  if  lavish  of  gold,  he  was  sparing  of  blood; 
That  when  England  was  threatened  by  France  and  by  Rome, 
He  forced  Peace  from  abroad  and  encamped  her  at  home, 
And  the  Freedom  he  left,  rooted  firm  in  mild  laws, 
May  o'ershadow  the  faults  of  deeds  done  in  her  cause! 

[Enter  VeaseY. 


328  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  hi 


SCENE   VI. 
Walpole,  Veasey. 

Vea.  [giving  note].  Famous  news!      See,    Bellair  has  de- 
livered himself 
To  your  hands.    He  must  go  heart  and  soul  with  the  Gruelph, 
And  vote  straight,  or  he's  ruined. 

Wal.  [reac^m^].  This  note  makes  it  clear 

That  he's  guilty  of  Nithsdale's  escape. 

Vea.  And  I  hear 

That  to-night  he  will  lead  some  tumultuous  revolt, 
Unless  chained  to  his  stall  like  a  mischievous  colt. 

Wal.  Your  informant  ? 

Vea.  Gruess!     Blount;  but  on  promise  to  save 

His  young  friend's  life  and  fortune! 

Wal.  What  Blount  says  is  grave. 

He  would  never  thus  speak  if  not  sure  of  his  fact. 

[Signing  warrant. 
Here,  then,  take  my  State  warrant;  but  cautiously  act. 
Bid  Bellair  keep  his  house — forbid  exits  and  entries; — 
To  make  sure,  at  his  door  place  a  couple  of  sentries. 
Say  I  mean  him  no  ill;  but  these  times  will  excuse 
Much  less  gentle  precautions  than  those  which  I  use. 
Stay,  Dame  Vizard  is  waiting  without:  to  her  den 
Nithsdale  fled.     She  came  here  to  betray  him. 

Vea.  What  then? 

Wal.  Why,  I  kept  her,  perforce,  till  I  sent,  on  the  sly^ 
To  prevent  her  from  hearing  Lord  Nithsdale's  good-by. 


SCENE  viij  WALPOLE  329 

When  my  agent  arrived,  I'm  delighted  to  say 
That  the  cage-wires  were  broken, — the  bird  flown  away; 
But  he  found  one  poor  captive  imprisoned,  and  weeping; 
1  must  learn  how  that  captive  came  into  such  keeping. 
Now,  then,  off — nay,  a  moment;  you  would  not  be  loth 
Just  to  stay  with  Bellair? — I  may  send  for  you  both. 

Vea.  With  a  host  more  delightful  no  mortal  could  sup, 
But  a  guest  so  unlooked  for 

Wal.  Will  cheer  the  boy  up! 

[£Jxit  Veasey. 

Wal.   [ringing  hand-bell].  [Winter  Servant. 

Usher  in  Mistress  Vizard. 

SCENE    YII. 
Walpole,  Mrs.  Vizard. 

Wal.  Quite  shocked  to  detain  you, 

But  I  knew  a  mistake,  if  there  were  one,  would  pain  you. 

M7's.  V.  Sir,  mistake  there  is  not;    that  vile  creature  is 
no  woman. 

Wal.  But  you  locked  the  door? 

Mrs.  V.  Fast. 

Wal.  Then,  no  doubt,  'tis  a  woman. 

For  she  slipped  thro'  the  window. 

Mrs.  V.  No  woman  durst ! 

Wal.  Nay. 

When  did  woman  want  courage  to  go  her  own  way? 

Mrs.  V.  You  jest,  sir.     To  me  'tis  no  subject  of  laughter. 

Wal.    Do   not  weep.      The   reward? — we'll    discuss   that 
hereafter. 

Mrs.  V.  You'd  not  wrong  a  poor  widow  who  brought  you 
such  news? 


830  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC   WORKS  [act  in 

Wal  Wrong  a  widow! — there's  oil  to  put  in  her  cruse. 

[Giving  a  pocket-hook. 
Meanwhile,  the  tried  agent  despatched  to  your  house, 
In  that  trap  found  a  poor  little  terrified  mouse, 
Which  did  call  itself  "Wilmot" — a  name  known  to  me. 
Pray  you,  how  in  your  trap  did  that  mouse  come  to  be? 

Mrs.  V.  [hesitatingly].  Sir,  believe  me 

Wal.  Speak  truth — for  your  own  sake  you  ought. 

Mrs.  V.  By  a  gentleman,  sir,  to  my  house  she  was  brought. 

Wal.  Oh !  some  Jacobite  kinsman  perhaps  ? 

Mrs.  V.  Bless  you,  no; 

A  respectable  Eoundhead.     You  frighten  me  so ! 

Wal.  A  respectable  Eoundhead  intrust  to  your  care 
A  young  girl,  whom  you  guard  as  in  prison! — Beware! 
'Gainst  decoy  for  vile  purpose  the  law  is  severe. 

Mrs.  V.  Fie!  you  libel  a  saint,  sir,  of  morals  austere. 

Wal.  Do  you  mean  Judith  Vizard? 

Mrs.  V.  I  mean  Selden  Blount. 

Wal.  I'm  bewildered!    But  why  does  this  saint  (no  affront) 
To  your  pious  retreat  a  fair  damsel  confide? 

Mrs.  V.  To  protect  her  as  ward  till  he  claims  her  as  bride. 

Wal.  Faith,  his  saintship  does  well  until  that  day  arrive 
To  imprison  the  maid  he  proposes  to  wive. 
But  these  Roundheads  are  wont  but  with  Roundheads  to 

wed, 
And  the  name  of  this  lady  is  Wilmot  she  said. 
Every  Wilmot  I  know  of  is  to  the  backbone 
A  rank  Jacobite;  say,  can  that  name  be  her  own? 

Mrs.  V.  Not  a  doubt;  more  than  once  I  have  heard  the 
girl  say 
That  her  father  had  fought  for  King  James  on  the  day 
When  the  ranks  of  the  Stuart  were  crushed  at  the  Boyne. 


SCENE  viu]  WALPOLE  331 

He  escaped  from  the  slaughter,  and  fled  to  rejoin 
At  the  Court  of  St.  Grermain's  his  new- wedded  bride. 
Long  their  hearth  without  prattlers;  a  year  ere  he  died, 
Lucy  came  to  console  her  who  mourned  him  bereft 
Of  all  else  in  this  world. 

Wal.   [eagerly].  But  the  widow  he  left; 

She  lives  still? 

Mrs.  V.  No ;  her  child  is  now  motherless. 

Wal   [aside].  Fled  I 

Fled  again  from  us,  sister!     How  stern  are  the  dead! 
Their  dumb  lips  have  no  pardon!     Tut!  shall  I  build  grief 
On  a  guess  that  perchance  only  fools  my  belief? 
This  may  not  be  her  child.  [Rings. 

Enter  Servant. 

My  coach  waits? 
Servant.  At  the  door. 

Wal.    Come;    your  house   teems  with   secrets   I   long  to 
explore.  [Exeunt  Walpole  and  Mrs.  Vizard. 


SCENE   VIII. 

Mrs.  Vizard's  house.     A  lamp  on  the  table. 
Enter  Lucy  from  her  room. 

Lucy.  Mistress  Vizard  still  out!  [Looking  at  the  clock. 

What!  so  late?     Oh,  my  heart! 
How  it  beats!     Have  I  promised  in  stealth  to  depart? 
Trust  him — yes!     But  will  Ae,  ah!  long  after  this  night, 
Trust  the  wife  wooed  so  briefly,  and  won  but  by  flight? 
My  lost  mother!  [Takes  a  miniature  from  her  breast. 

Oh,  couldst  thou  yet  counsel  thy  child! 


332  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  lU 

No,  this  lip  does  not  smile  as  it  yesterday  smiled. 

From  thine  heaven  can  no  warning  voice  come  to  mine  ear; 

Save  thy  child  from  herself; — 'tis  myself  that  1  fear. 

Enter  Walpole  and  Mes.  Vizard  through  the  concealed  door, 

Mrs.  V.  Lucy,  love,  in  this  gentleman  (curtsey,  my  dear) 
See  a  friend. 
Wed.  Peace,  and  leave  us.         [Exit  Mrs.  Vizard. 


SCENE   IX. 
Walpole,  Lucy. 

Wal.  Fair  girl  I  would  hear 

From  yourself,  if  your  parents 

Lucy.  My  parents;  oh,  say 

Did  you  know  them  ? — my  mother  ? 

Wal.  The  years  roll  away. 

I  behold  a  gray  hall,  backed  by  woodlands  of  pine; 
I  behold  a  fair  face — eyes  and  tresses  like  thine — 
By  her  side  a  rude  boy  full  of  turbulent  life, 
All  impatient  of  rest,  and  all  burning  for  strife — 
They  are  brother  and  sister.     Unconscious  they  stand — 
On  the  spot  where  their  paths  shall  divide — hand  in  hand. 
Hush!  a  moment,  and  lo!  as  if  lost  amid  night. 
She  is  gone  from  his  side,  she  is  snatched  from  his  sight. 
Time  has  flowed  on  its  course — that  wild  boy  lives  in  me; 
But  the  sister  I  lost!     Does  she  bloom  back  in  thee? 
Speak — the  name  of  thy  mother,  ere  changing  her  own 
For  her  lord's? — who  her  parents? 

Lucy.  I  never  have  known. 

When  she  married  my  father,  they  spurned  her,  she  said, 


SCENE  IX]  WALPOLE  333 

Bade  her  bold  herself  henceforth  to  them  as  the  dead; 
Slandered  him  in  whose  honor  she  gloried  as  wife, 
Urged  attaint  on  his  name,  plotted  snares  for  his  life; 
And  one  day  when  I  asked  what  her  lineage,  she  sighed 
"From  the  heart  they  so  tortured  their  memory  has  died." 

.Wal.  Civil  war  slays  all  kindred — all  mercy,  all  ruth. 

Lucy.  Did  you  know  her  ? — if  so,   was  this  like  her  in 
youth?  [Giving  miniature. 

Wal.  It  is  she;  the  lips  speak!     Oh,  I  knew  it! — thou  art 
My  lost  sister  restored ! — to  mine  arms,  to  mine  heart. 
That  wild  brother  the  wrongs  of  his  race  shall  atone; 
He  has  stormed  his  way  up  to  the  foot  of  the  throne. 
Yes!    thy  mate   thou  shalt  choose   'mid  the  chiefs  of  the 

land. 
Dost    thou   shrink?  —  heard  I  right?  —  is  it  promised  this 

hand. 
And  to  one,  too,  of  years  so  unsuited  to  thine  ? 

Lucy.   Dare  I  tell  you  ? 

Wal.  Speak,  sure  that  thy  choice  shall  be  mine. 

Lucy.  When  my  mother    lay  stricken    in    mind   and   in 
frame, 
All  our  scant  savings  gone,  to  our  succor  there  came 
A  rich  stranger,  who  lodged  at  the  inn  whence  they  sought 
To  expel  us  as  vagrants.     Their  mercy  he  bought; 
Ever  since  I  was  left  in  the  wide  world  alone, 
I  have  owed  to  his  pity  this  roof 

Wal.  Will  you  own 

What  you  gave  in  return? 

Lucy.  Grateful  reverence. 

Wal.  And  so 

He  asked  more! 

Lucy.  Ah!  that  more  was  not  mine  to  bestow. 


334  BULWER'S   DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  hi 

Wal.   What!    your  heart  some  one  younger  already  had 
won. 
Is  he  handsome? 

Lucy.  Oh  yes! 

Wal.  And  a  gentleman's  son? 

Lucy.  Sir,  he  looks  it. 

WaJ.  His  name  is 

Lucy.  Sir  Sidney  Bellair. 

Wal.  Eh!  that  brilliant  Lothario?     Dear  Lucy,  beware; 
Men  of  temper  so  light  may  make  love  in  mere  sport. 
Where  on  earth  did  you  meet  ? — in  what  terms  did  he  court? 
Why  so  troubled?     Why  turn  on  the  timepiece  your  eye? 
Orphan,  trust  me. 

Lucy.  I  will.     I  half  promised  to  fly 

Wal.  With  Bellair.      [Aside.']    He  shall  answer  for  this 
with  his  life. 
Fly  to-night  as  his — what! 

Lucy.  Turn  your  face — as  his  wife. 

[Lucy  sinks  cloion,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands, 

Wal.  [going  to  the  door\  Jasper — ho! 

Enter  Servant  as  he  writes  on  his  tablets. 

Take  my  coach  to  Sir  Sidney's,  Whitehall. 
Mr.  Veasey  is  there ;  give  him  this — that  is  all. 

[Tearing  out  the  leaf  from  the  tablet  and  folding  it  up. 
Go  out  the  back  way;  it  is  nearest  my  carriage.' 

[Opens  the  concealed  door,  through  ivhich  exit  Servant. 
I  shall  very  soon  know  if  the  puppy  means  marriage. 
Lucy.  Listen;  ah!  that's  his  signal! 

'  In  obeying  this  instruction,  the  servant  would  not  see  the  ladder,  which 
(as  tlie  reader  will  learn  by  what  immediately  follows)  is  placed  against  the  bal- 
cony in  the  front  of  the  house. 


SCENE  x]  WALPOLE  335 

Wal.  A  stone  at  the  pane  I 

But  it  can't  be  Bell  air — he  is  safe. 

Lucy.  There,  again! 

Wal.  [peeps  from  the  ivindow].  Ho! — a  ladder!     Niece,  do 
as  I  bid  you;  confide 
In  my  word,  and  I  promise  Sir  Sidney  his  bride! 
Ope  the  window  and  whisper,  "I'm  chained  to  the  ~ 

floor; 
Pray,  come  up  and  release  me!" 

Lucy  [out  of  the  luindoiv].    "I'm  chained  to  the 
floor; 
Pray,  come  up  and  release  me." 

Wal.  I  watch  by  this  door.  , 

[Enters  Lucy's  room  and  peeping  out. 
[Blount  enters  through  the  window. 


SCENE    X. 
Blount,  Lucy,  Walpole  at  watch  unobserved. 

Lucy.  Saints  in  heaven,  Mr.  Jones! 

Wal.  [aside'].  Selden  Blount,  by  Old  Nick! 

Blount.   What!  you   are   not   then   chained!     Must   each 
word  be  a  trick? 
Ah!  you  look  for  a  gallant  more  dainty  and  trim; 
He  deputes  me  to  say  he  abandons  his  whim; 
By  his  special  request  I  am  here  in  his  place — 
Saving  him  from  a  crime  and  yourself  from  disgrace. 
Still,  ungrateful,  excuse  for  your  folly  I  make — 
Still,  the  prize  he  disdains  to  my  heart  I  can  take. 
Ely  with  me,  as  with  him  you  would  rashly  have  fled; — 


836  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  in 

He  but  sought  to  degrade  you,  I  seek  but  to  wed. 
Take  revenge  on  the  false  heart,  give  bliss  to  the  true  I 

Lucy.  If  he's  false  to  myself,  I  were  falser  to  you, 
Could  I  say  I  forget  him. 

Blount.  You  will,  when  my  wife. 

Lucy.  That  can  never  be 

Blount.  Never! 

Lucy.  One  love  lasts  thro'  lifel 

Blount.  Traitress!   think  not   this    insult  can    tamely  be 
borne — 
Hearts  like  mine  are  too  proud  for  submission  to  scorn. 
You  are  here  at  my  mercy — 'that  mercy  has  died; 
You  remain  as  my  victim  or  part  as  my  bride. 

[Locks  the  door. 
See,  escape  is  in  vain,  and  all  others  desert  you; 
Let  these  arms  be  your  refuge. 

Wal.    [tapping  him  on   the   shoulder].    Well   said,   Public 
Virtue! 

[Blount,  stupefied^  drops  the  key^  ivhich  Walpole  takes 
up,    stepping    out    into    the    balcony,    to    return    as 
Blount,    recovering   himself,    makes   a   rush   at   the 
window. 
Wal.  [stopping  him].  As  you  justly  observed,  "See,  es- 
cape is  in  vain" — 
I  have  pushed  down  the  ladder. 

Blount   [laying   his   hand   on    his   sword]. 

'Sdeath!  draw,  sir! — 
Wal.  Abstain 

From  that  worst  of  all  blunders,  a  profitless  crime. 
Cut  my  innocent  throat?     Fie!  one  sin  at  a  time. 

Blount.  Sir,  mock  on,  I  deserve  it;  expose  me  to  shame, 
I've  o'erthrown  my  life's  labor, — an  honest  man's  name. 


SCENE  XI]  WALPOLE  337 

Lucy  [stealing  up  to  Blount].  No;  a  moment  of  madness 
cannot  sweep  away 
All  1  owed,  and — forgive  me — have  failed  to  repay: 

[jTo  Walpole. 
Be  that  moment  a  secret. 

Wal.  If  woman  can  keep  one, 

Then  a  secret's  a  secret.    Gad,  Blount,  you're  a  deep  one! 
[Knock  at  the  door  ;  Walpole  opens  it. 
[Enter  Bellair  and  Yeasey,  followed  hy  Mrs.  Vizard. 


SCENE   XI. 

Walpole,  Lucy,  Blount,  Veasey,  Bellair,  Mrs. 
Vizard  in  the  background. 

Bel.  [not  seeing  Walpole,  ivlio  is  concealed  behind  the  door 

which  he  opens,  and  hurrying  to  Blount].  Faithless  man, 

canst  thou  look  on  my  face  undismayed? 
Nithsdale's  letter  disclosed,  and  my  friendship  betrayed! 
What!  andAeretoo!     WhyAere.^ 

Blount  [aside^.  I  shall  be  the  town's  scoff. 

Wal.  [to  Bellair  and  Veasey].  Sirs,  methinks  that  you 

see  not  that  lady — hats  off. 
I  requested  your  presence,  Sir  Sidney  Bellair, 
To  make   known  what  you  owe  to  the  friend  who  stands 

there. 

For  that  letter  disclosed,  your  harsh  language  recant 

It's  condition  your  pardon; — full  pardon  I  grant. 
He  is  here — you  ask  why;  'tis  to  save  you  to-night 
From  degrading  your  bride  by  the  scandal  of  flight. 

[Draiving  him  aside. 
Bulwer,  Vol.  XXX  *0 


838  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  hi 

Or — hist! — did  you  intend  (whisper  close  in  my  ear) 
Honest  wedlock  with  one  so  beneath  you  I  fear? 

You  of  lineage  so  ancient 

Bel.  Must  mean  what  I  say. 

Do  their  ancestors  teach  the  Well-born  to  betray? 
Wal.  Wed  her  friendless  and  penniless? 
Bel.  Ay. 

Wal.  Strange  caprice. 

Deign  to  ask,  then,  from  Walpole  the  hand  of  his  niece. 
Should  he  give  his  consent,  thank  the  friend  you  abuse. 
Bel.  [embracing  Blount].  Best  and  noblest  of  men,  my 

blind  fury  excuse! 
Wal.  Hark !  her  father's  lost  lands  may  yet  serve  for  her 

dower. 
Bel.   All  the  earth  has  no  lands  worth  the  bloom  of  this 

flower. 
Lucy.  Ah!  too  soon  fades  the  flower. 

Bel.  True,  I  alter  the  name. 

Be  my  perfect  pure  clirj'solite — ever  the  same. 

Wal.  Hold!  I  know  not  a  chrysolite  from  a  carbuncle, 

[With  insinuating  blandishment  of  voice  and  look. 
But  my  nephew-in-law  should  not  vote  out  his  uncle. 

Bel.  Robert  Walpole,  at  last  you  have  bought  me,  I  fear. 
Wal.  Every  man  has  his  price.     My  majority's  clear. 

If, [Crossing  quickly  to  Blount. 

Dear  Blount,  did  your  goodness  not  rank  with  the  best, 
What  you  feel  as  reproach,  you  would  treat  as  a  jest. 
Raise  your  head — and  with  me  keep  a  laugh  for  the  ass 
Who  has  never  gone  out  of  his  wits  for  a  lass: 
Live  again  for  your  country — reflect  on  my  bill. 

Blount   [ivith  emotion,  grasping   Walpole's  hand^.   You 
are  generous;  I  thank  you.      Vote  with  you? — I  will! 


SCENE  XI]  WALPOLE  339 

Yea.   How   dispersed   are   the   clouds    seeming   lately   so 

sinister! 
Wal.  Yes,  I  think  that  the  glass  stands  at  Fair — for  the 

Minister. 
Vea.  Ah!  what  more  could  you  do  for  the  People  and 

Throne? 
Wal.  Now  I'm  safe  in  my  office,  I'd  leave  well  alone. 


DARN  LEY 


841 


PREFACE  TO   "DARNLEY" 

My  father  left  to  my  unfettered  discretion  the  task  of 
dealing  with  his  numerous  unpublished  manuscripts. 
Among  them  was  one  which,  under  the  title  of  "Darn- 
ley,"  is  here  added  to  the  collection  of  his  dramatic  works. 
Its  author  had  given  to  it  no  name  and  no  conclusion.  It 
consisted  of  four  acts  of  a  five-act  play,  finished  only  in  the 
rouo;h,  and  some  few  notes.  The  four  acts  had  not  received 
those  important  final  touches  which,  in  the  case  of  acting 
plays,  are  best  reserved  for  consultation  with  the  principal 
actors  concerned  in  their  performance.  Of  the  fifth  act  no 
trace  existed;  except  in  the  few  notes  to  which  reference 
will  be  found  at  the  conclusion  of  the  fourth  act  as  printed 
in  this  Edition.  Such  was  the  condition  of  the  manuscript 
I  had  to  deal  with  under  a  twofold  sense  of  obligation  to 
the  living  and  the  dead.  The  literary  remains  of  cele- 
brated authors  constitute  a  kind  of  property  not  easily  clas- 
sified. It  is  not  altogether  private:  for  the  public  has  a 
legitimate  interest  in  the  result  of  all  literary  labor  under- 
taken by  a  great  author  for  its  enjoyment  or  instruction. 
And  of  this  interest  the  author's  literary  executors  are  to 
some  extent  trustees.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  they  are 
also  the  guardians  of  a  reputation  not  their  own.  Death 
has  placed  in  their  hands  the  key  of  a  workshop,  only  in- 
teresting to  the  public  on  account  of  the  worthy  and  famous 
works  which  have  issued  from  it.     In  its  secret  chambers 

(843) 


344  PREFACE 

are  materials  collected,  and  instruments  arranged,  which 
may  serve  to  illustrate  the  master's  method,  though  they 
cannot  reveal  his  incommunicable  secret;  and,  with  them, 
fragments  of  work  reserved  either  for  destruction  or  com- 
pletion by  the  hand  that  has  left  it  incomplete.  Shall  all 
these  be  consigned  forever  to  that  "wallet,"  wherein  "Time 
puts  alms  for  Oblivion?"  If  not,  how  many  of  them  will 
it  be  right  to  save  for  the  satisfaction  of  a  not  irreverent 
curiosity  ? 

Such  questions  present  themselves  in  a  form  compara- 
tively simple  to  the  literary  executors  of  the  philosopher 
or  the  man  of  science,  whose  roughest  notes  possess  an  in- 
terest and  importance  which  owe  nothing  to  art.  But  the 
literary  value  of  work  done  by  the  poet,  the  novelist,  or  the 
dramatist,  is  largely  dependent  on  the  artistic  finish  of  it. 
And  those  who  display  the  unpublished  work  of  a  great 
artist  must  recall  in  fear  and  trembling  the  curse  invoked 
by  Shakespeare  on  the  disturber  of  his  bones. 

I  was  not  uninfluenced  by  these  reflections  when  consid- 
ering what  I  should  do  with  the  present  dramatic  fragment. 
I  cannot  precisely  fix  the  date  at  which  it  was  written;  but 
the  allusions  it  contains  to  an  attempt  on  the  life  of  Louis 
Philippe,  and  the  military  action  of  Sir  Harry  Pottinger, 
leave  no  doubt  that  it  must  have  lain  for  many  years  undis- 
turbed in  the  portfolio  of  its  author.  Why  did  he  leave  it 
so  long  unfinished  ?  "Why,  in  the  course  of  those  many 
years,  had  he  made  no  effort  to  place  it  on  the  stage  ?  Was 
it  because  he  deemed  tlie  work  undeserving  of  completion 
and  performance  ?  If  so,  the  posthumous  publication  of  it 
would  liave  been  wholly  unwarrantable.  But  I  had  many 
and  strong  reasons  for  attributing  to  other  causes  my  father's 
apparent  neglect  of  a  work  which,  even  in  its  present  rough- 


PREFACE  345 

hewn  and    unfinished  condition,  is  powerfull}'  constructed 
and  full  of  vigorous  handiwork. 

In  the  first  place;  although,  during  my  father's  lifetime, 
I  was  not  aware  of  the  existence  of  this  unfinished  play,  yet 
in  conversations  with  me  on  the  subject  of  dramatic  struc> 
ture  he  had  frequently  illustrated  his  views  of  that  most 
difficult  art  by  describing  scenes  and  situations  which  occur 
in  "Darnley";  and  he  often  expressed  to  me  his  conviction 
that  a  most  powerful  domestic  drama  might  be  constructed 
out  of  the  conception  he  has  here  embodied.  In  the  next 
place;  this  unfinished  play  belongs  to  an  important  series 
of  carefully  completed  dramas  which,  though  he  reckoned 
them  among  the  best  of  his  dramatic  works,  my  father  never 
published.  They  were  all  written  for  the  stage.  They 
were  never  published  because  they  had  never  been  per- 
formed; and  they  were  never  performed  because  no  theatre 
in  this  country  united  all  the  requisite  conditions  of  their 
efficient  performance.  With  Mr.  Macready's  retirement 
from  the  stage,  my  father  had  lost  his  chief  incentive  to 
write  for  it.  Here  and  there,  it  still  furnished  an  excellent 
actor,  but  nowhere  an  acting  company,  or  a  school  of  act- 
ing, able  to  give  adequate  expression  to  the  ideas  embodied 
in  a  form  possessing  any  pretension  to  literary  value.  But 
the  bent  of  my  father's  genius  was  so  emphatically  dramatic 
that  the  form  first  assumed  by  many  of  his  most  important 
fictions  was  that  of  the  drama.  Of  these  dramatic  sketches, 
some  were  eventually  developed  into  novels  and  romances; 
which  probably  owe  much  of  their  structural  symmetry  and 
emotional  strength  to  the  concise  dramatic  form  wherein 
the  conception  of  them  was  first  cast.  Others  he  retained 
in  this  form;  hopeful,  no  doubt,  of  an  occasion  that  never 
came  during  his  lifetime,  when  they  might  be  placed  upon 


346  PREFACE 

the  stage  with  a  reasonable  prospect  of  that  perfect  co-opera- 
tion of  intelligence  between  the  author,  the  actors,  and  the 
public,  which  is  indispensable  to  the  satisfactory  effect  of 
an  acting  play. 

Notwithstanding  the  unfinished  condition  of  it,  the  manu- 
script of  "Darnley"  appeared  to  me  too  vigorous  and  valu- 
able a  specimen  of  its  author's  dramatic  workmanship  to  be 
permanently  withheld  from  the  public.  In  this  impression 
I  was  confirmed  by  the  unqualified  opinion  of  the  late  Mr. 
John  Eorster,  and  the  late  Mr.  George  Lewes,  to  whom  I 
showed  it.  Those  competent  judges  of  dramatic  writing 
also  shared  my  conviction  that  for  the  publication  of  this 
work  the  stage  was  the  only  adequate  vehicle.  The  late 
Mr.  Rogers,  when  told  by  one  of  his  guests  that  the  author 
of  "Philip  van  Arte  veldt"  had  written  a  new  play,  asked 
"Is  it  an  acting  play,  or  a  reading  play?"  And  on  hearing 
that  it  was  a  reading  play,  he  dr3dy  replied,  "Then  I  shan't 
read  it."  Few  people  do  read  with  complete  satisfaction 
that  hybrid  kind  of  composition  which  is  commonly  called 
a  reading  play.  Bat  poems  are  poems;  and  not  to  be  talked 
of,  or  thought  of,  as  plays,  merely  because  they  happen  to 
be  written  in  dialogue,  and  divided  into  acts  and  scenes. 
Such  dramatic  poems  as  those  of  Sir  Henry  Taylor  are  lit- 
erary treasures,  of  which  the  value  has  no  relation  to  their 
acting  capabilities.  To  be  rightly  appreciated,  they  must 
be  read.  It  is  just  the  reverse  with  a  genuine  play.  To 
be  rightly  appreciated,  it  must  be  acted.  In  the  case  of 
this  play,  however,  the  unfinished  condition  of  it  was  an 
insuperable  obstacle  to  placing  it  upon  the.  stage  in  a  thor- 
oughly satisfactory  form.  In  Germany  the  play-going  pub- 
lic is  interested  by  the  performance  of  such  a  mere  dramatic 
fragment  as  the  "Demetrius"  of  Schiller,  when  it  is  from 


PREFACE  347 

the  pen  of  a  famous  national  author.  But  from  an  English 
audience  it  would  be  idle  to  expect  a  similar  interest  in  the 
performance  of  an  unfinished  play,  however  illustrious  its 
authorship.  And,  even  in  Germany,  an  unfinished  play  by 
Goethe,  Schiller,  Lessing  or  Grillparzer,  though  sure  of  a 
permanent  place  in  the  repertoire  on  the  national  stage, 
would  probably  fail  to  fill  the  theatre  for  many  consecutive 
nights.  In  order  to  place  this  play  upon  the  stage,  there- 
fore, it  was  necessary  to  add  to  it  a  fifth  act,  by  a  hand  not 
that  of  its  author.  For  such  a  task  it  was  not  easy  to  find 
in  any  one  writer  all  the  requisite  qualifications.  In  some 
who  were  not  unwilling  to  undertake  it  I  could  reckon  upon 
knowledge  of  the  stage,  in  others  upon  literary  capacity. 
In  none  upon  a  combination  of  both,  commensurate  with 
the  difl&culty  of  the  undertaking.  Wholly  unqualified  to 
undertake  it  myself,  I  asked  Monsieur  Alexandre  Dumas 
whether  he  would  be  willing  to  write  the  fifth  act  of  this 
play  with  a  view  to  its  performance,  as  thus  completed,  at 
the  Theatre  Frangais,  in  Paris.  That  eminent  dramatist 
declared  himself  much  pleased  and  flattered  by  the  pro- 
posal. After  reading  the  four  acts  written  by  my  father, 
however,  he  found  that  their  adaptation  to  the  taste  of  a 
French  audience  would  require  alterations  of  the  original 
text  more  or  less  inconsistent  with  fidelity  to  the  main  idea 
of  it;  and  to  Monsieur  Dumas  no  less  than  to  myself  this 
consideration  appeared  conclusive  against  the  project  of 
bringing  out  the  play  in  France.  Shortly  afterward,  I  re- 
ceived from  Mr.  Hare  proposals  for  the  production  of  it  at 
the  Court  Theatre  in  London.  In  accepting  Mr.  Hare's 
proposals  I  felt  assured,  both  from  the  finished  excellence 
of  his  own  acting  and  the  general  intelligence  with  which  it 
was  supported  by  the  company  then  associated  with  him, 


848  PREFACE 

that  the  play  could  not  be  performed  in  England  under  con- 
ditions more  favorable  to  its  success,  if  only  the  dramatic 
interest  of  it  were  adequately  sustained  in  the  fifth  act  still 
to  be  written  for  it.  The  composition  of  this  act  was  in- 
trusted to  Mr.  Coghlan;  and  I  hoped  to  assist  him  in  it  by 
various  suggestions  which  are  submitted  to  the  reader  in 
the  explanatory  remarks  I  have  appended  to  the  fourth 
act.  The  fulfilment  of  that  hope  however  was  prevented  by 
circumstances  which  involved  my  lengthened  absence  from 
England  before  I  had  any  communication  with  Mr.  Cogh- 
lan on  the  subject  of  his  work.  He  completed  it  without 
reference  to  me,  during  my  absence;  and  I  was  busily  oc- 
cupied in  India  when  the  play,  as  finished  by  him,  was 
brought  out  at  the  Court  Theatre  in  London. 

No  effort  to  insure  success  was  neglected.  It  was  placed 
upon  the  stage  with  great  intelligence  and  expense;  and  I 
am  assured  by  all  who  witnessed  it  that  Mr.  Hare's  imper- 
sonation of  the  character  of  Mainwariog  was  one  of  his  most 
finished  and  admirable  performances.  Nevertheless  the 
play  was  not  successful;  and  after  a  short  run  it  was 
withdrawn.  T?ranslated  into  Grerman,  it  had  been  simul- 
taneously produced  in  Vienna,  at  the  Burg  Theatre,  by 
some  of  the  best  actors  in  Europe.  The  announcement  of 
its  performance  on  that  celebrated  stage  had  been  received 
with  lively  interest  by  a  population  to  whom  the  name  of 
its  author  was  a  household  word.  The  performance  was 
honored  by  the  presence  of  the  Emperor  and  the  whole  Im- 
perial Court,  as  well  as  by  all  the  representatives  of  the 
literary  world  in  Austria.  The  actors  had  undertaken  their 
parts  with  enthusiasm;  and  the  Darnley  of  Herr  Sonenthal 
was,  I  am  told  by  those  who  saw  it,  most  effective  and 
affecting.     The  audience  followed  the  progress  of  the  play 


PREFACE  849 

with  animated  and  increasing  interest  to  tlie  close  of  the 
fourth  act.  But  its  permanent  interest  as  a  drama  could 
not  survive  the  anti-climax  of  the  fifth  act.  Thus  at 
Vienna,  as  in  London,  the  play  was  withdrawn  after  a 
short  run.  I  should  leave  both  the  author  and  the  actors 
of  "Darnley"  under  a  reproach  which  they  do  not  deserve 
if  I  recorded  this  failure  without  stating  what  1  believe  to 
be  the  cause  of  it. 

I  have  no  doubt  whatever  that,  had  my  father  himself 
prepared  this  play  for  tlie  stage,  he  would  have  made  in  the 
four  acts,  here  printed  just  as  they  were  left  by  him,  various 
alterations  suggested  by  the  experience  of  rehearsal.  That 
was  his  practice  in  the  composition  of  those  dramas  which 
have  taken  so  permanent  a  hold  upon  the  English  stage. 

However  strong  or  accurate  may  be  the  dramatic  instinct 
of  an  author's  genius,  if  he  is  not  professionally  connected 
with  the  stage,  he  cannot  possibly  possess  that  intimate 
knowledge  of  it  which  best  qualifies  the  experienced  actor 
or  manager  to  suggest,  though  it  does  not  equally  qualify 
them  to  carry  out,  alterations  in  the  acting  copy  of  a  play. 
Moli^re's  plays  were  probably  much  improved  by  attention 
to  the  criticism  of  his  housekeeper.'  But  the  housekeeper 
would  not  have  improved  them,  had  she  herself  undertaken 
the  alterations  which  her  remarks  suggested  to  their  author. 
Mr.  Coghlan's  alterations  of  my  father's  manuscript  were 
sparing  and  judicious.  For  acting  purposes  I  believe  every 
one  of  them  to  have  been  necessary  in  the  peculiar  circum- 
stances of  the  case.  They  were  mostly  in  the  way  of  omis- 
sion, and  rightly  so.  If  it  were  in  his  power,  it  was  not 
in  his  function,  to  strengthen  and  develop  any  part  of  the 

'  An  erroneous  tradition,  however.     The  housekeeper  was  Montaigne's. 


850  PREFACE 

author's  original  work.  Yet  there  are'  parts  of  it  which 
would  certainly  have  been  strengthened  and  developed  by 
its  author  had  they  received  his  final  touches.  For,  like  a 
skilful  painter,  he  never  worked  up  his  minor  tones  till  he 
had  put  in  his  strongest  light.  In  completing  this  play  he 
would  certainly  have  been  careful  to  make  the  first  four  acts 
of  it  conducive  and  subservient  to  the  effect  of  the  fifth. 
But  the  fifth  act  added  to  it  by  Mr.  Coghlan  was  not  only 
ineffective  itself;  it  was  also  destructive,  I  think,  to  the 
effect  of  the  four  preceding  ones.  This  was  perhaps  inevi- 
table under  the  very  difficult  conditions  of  a  somewhat  in- 
vidious task.  Nor  is  it  in  any  spirit  of  reproach  that  I 
attribute  the  failure  of  "Darnley"  as  an  acting  play,  mainly, 
though  not  entirely,  to  the  incongruity  of  the  fifth  act 
added  by  Mr.  Coghlan  to  the  acting  copy  of  it.  But  in 
justice  to  my  father's  work,  I  think  it  right  to  place  before 
the  readers  of  it  a  statement  of  the  principles  on  which  I 
believe  the  fifth  act  of  this  play  would  have  been  con- 
structed had  my  father  written  it  himself;  and  to  indicate 
the  denouement  intended  by  the  author.  This  I  have  done 
in  a  note  appended  to  the  fourth  act.  LYTTON, 

Knebworth,  May  16,  1882. 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS 


Darnley       .... 
Parsons,  his  Clerk 
Main  WARING,  his  Friend 
Sir  Francis  Marsden  \     ^^^  ^^. 

SeLFBY  FySHE        .  \  <iuainiances 

Lord    Fitzhollow,    his    Father 

in-Laio         .... 
Servant         .... 

Lady  Juliet  Darnley 

Fanny  Darnley  . 

Miss  Placid. 

The  Lady  of  the  Yilla    . 


Mr.  Charles  Kelly. 

Mr.  E.  Cathcart. 

Mr.  Hare. 
j  Mr.  Titheradge. 
\  Mr.  a.  Bishop. 


Mr.  Denison. 
Mr.  Carne. 

Miss  Ellen  Terry. 
Miss  Brown. 
Miss  Amy  Eoselle. 
Miss  B.  Henri. 


First  performed  on  Saturday,  the  6th  of  October,  1877,  at 
the  Com-t  Theatre. 


851 


DARNLEY 


ACT  1.— SCENE  I. 

Sir  Francis  Marsden's  lodgings. 

[Note  for  the  Scene-Painter.  —  Pictures  of  race-horses^ 
and  prints  of  opera-dancers  on  the  wall ;  Turkish  pipes  and 
loeapons  arranged  in  a  recess ;  foils  and  hoxing -gloves  on  one 
of  the  tables.  A  toilet  table.  And  the  general  character  of  the 
apartment  that  of  a  young  single  man  of  fortune  and  fashion.^ 

Marsden  [seated,  and  reading  the  neiuspaper'].  "Private 
French  Theatricals  at  the  Duchess  of  Dashmore's.  The 
brilliant  Sir  Francis  Marsden  (much  obliged  for  the  epi- 
thet!) performed  the  Marechal  de  Eichelieu,  and  in  the 
gayetj  of  the  part  seemed  perfectly  at  home."  At  home? 
Ignoramus!  as  if  gayety  and  "at  home"  were  not  a  contra- 
diction in  terms!  [yawns].  It  takes  a  vast  deal  of  pains  to 
be  a  Man  of  Pleasure!  What's  this?  "The  beautiful  Lady 
Juliet  Darnley" — a  long  paragraph  on  her  charms  and  her 
diamonds.  Yes;  she's  very  attractive,  and  her  conquest 
would  make  me  the  envy  of  London!  [yawns  again].  One 
must  be  always  falling  in  love  just  to  keep  one's  self 
awake. 

Unter  Selfby  Fyshe. 

Mars.  How  d'ye  do?  You  find  me  getting  up  the  news 
of  the  day  for  the  small  talk  of  the  evening. 

(853) 


854  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ll 

Fyshe.  News?  I  don't  care  for  news.  What's  news  to 
me?  News  means  other  people's  concerns;  I  don't  care  for 
other  people. 

Mars,  [treading].  What  a  horrible  fire  last  night  in  St. 
'Giles's! 

Fyshe.  Ah!  I've  no  property  in  that  direction. 

Mars.  So,  Louis  Philippe  has  been  shot  at  again!  What 
would  become  of  France  if  she  lost  that  sagacious  king? 

Fyshe.  It's  all  one  to  me.  I've  nothing  in  the  French 
funds. 

Mars.  Heavens!  What  is  this?  Your  poor  friend  Dick 
Squander — blew  out  his  brains  at  a  quarter  before  six 
yesterday  evening! 

Fyshe.  Did  he?  Thank  Heaven  I  never  lent  him  any- 
thing— except  my  umbrella!     I  must  send  for  it. 

Mars.  Unparalleled  philosopher,  unmoved  by  the  con- 
flagration of  a  parish,  the  murder  of  a  king,  the  danger 
of  a  realm,  and  the  suicide  of  a  friend! 

Fyshe.  Why,  certainly,  we  ought  all  to  be  thankful  when 
the  calamities  of  others  do  not  injure  ourselves  [offers  smiff]. 
My  mixture — the  Selfby  Fyshe  mixture. 

Mars.  No,  man!  I  abhor  your  puny  excitements  of  Rap- 
pee and  Havana.  Give  me  those  which  stir  the  blood,  and 
rock  the  heart — Fighting,  Politics,  Gaming,  Drinking,  Wine, 
Love! 

Fyshe.  Marsden,  don't  bore! 

Mars.  Ha!  ha!  Why  even  you  are  not  insensible  to  love. 
Own  that  you  are  prodigiously  stricken  with  the  fair  Amelia 
Placid— 

Fyshe.  More  propriety  in  your  expression — "stricken"  is 
violent,  and  "prodigiously"  hyperbolical.  Amelia  Placid's 
■uncle   was   my   father's   intimate    friend.     This   uncle   left 


SCENE  I]  DARNLEY  355 

Amelia  £30,000  of  which  she  forfeits  the  half  if  she  does 
not  marry  me — unless,  indeed,  1  refuse  to  insure  her  hap- 
piness by  making  her  Mrs.  Fyshe.  But  I'm  not  marble. 
I  shall  marry  her.  I'm  very  fastidious.  My  wife  must  be 
subdued  and  ladylike.  Miss  Placid  seems  tolerably  quiet; 
understands  draughts  and  double  dummy.  I  could  conceive 
a  sort  of  a  kind  of  conjugal  tranquillity  in  retiring  to  Fyshe 
Hall  with  a  sort  of  a  kind  of  tranquil  companion  who  would 
not  give  me  much  trouble.  [Thoughtfully.']  She  don't  look 
as  if  she'd  have  noisy  children! 

Mars.  Well,  I  wish  you  tranquillity  with  your  Amelia. 
Wish  me  rapture  with  my  Juliet. 

Fyshe.  Your  Juliet's  married  already,  and  they  put  a  very 
high  price  upon  rapture  at  Doctors'  Commons. 

Mars.  Pshaw!  I  would  give  my  whole  fortune  for  a 
smile. 

Fyshe  [asidel.  He'd  have  the  smile  at  a  bargain.  His 
fortune's  all  gone  to  the  Jews.  [Aloud.']  Really,  though 
it's  no  business  of  mine,  I  must  say  I  think  it's  very  im- 
moral to  destroy  the  happiness  of  an  excellent  man — who 
gives  excellent  dinners. 

Mars.  Happiness?  No,  I'm  a  sad  dog  where  love  is  con- 
cerned, but  not  so  bad  as  you  think  me.  There  can  be  no 
happiness  in  my  cousin  Juliet's  marriage  with  Darnley. 

Fyshe.  Why?  He's  a  very  gentlemanlike  man — for  a 
merchant,  or  rather  a  speculator,  for  he's  more  the  last 
than  the  first. 

Mars.  Oh!  his  father  was  a  cabinet  minister,  his  boyhood 
was  spent  in  a  court.  When  he  came  of  age  his  father 
offered  him  a  sinecure,  and  a  relation  of  his  mother's 
offered  him  a  share  in  a  mercantile  establishment.  He 
chose  the  latter;  spent  his  youth  at  the  desk;  at  the  age 


356  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  I 

of  thirty-three  saw  mj  cousin  Juliet,  then  only  seventeen; 
fell  in  love  with  her,  and  was  accepted.  For  two  or  three 
years  I  dare  say  they  lived  like  most  married  people.  But 
twelve  months  ago  this  Darnley,  whose  genius  for  specula- 
tion is  wonderful,  by  a  series  of  lucky  hits  became,  from  a 
man  of  easy  fortune,  one  of  the  richest  subjects  in  Europe. 
From  that  time  he  has  only  lived  for  speculation,  and  Juliet 
has  only  lived  for  the  world.  They  scarcely  ever  see  each 
other.  Juliet  is  without  a  guide,  and  Darnley  without  a 
companion. 

Fyshe.  Darnley  must  be  occupied  indeed  if  he  does  not 
observe  your  more  than  cousinly  attentions.  Does  he  never 
seem  to  suspect  you. 

Mars.  You  know  his  singular  calm  and  thorough  high 
breeding.  An  enthusiast  at  the  counter,  but  a  stoic  in  the 
world.  If  he  suspects  me,  he  shows  it  only  by  an  ironical 
politeness  that  looks  confoundedly  like  contempt.  [Looks 
at  his  watch.1  I  did  not  know  it  was  so  late.  I  am  goiog  to 
Lady  Juliet's,  shall  I  take  you  in  my  cab? 

Fyshe.  No  ?  Cabs  are  liable  to  accidents.  I  have  patent 
safety  close  little  carriage. 

Mars.  Then  you  shall  take  me. 

Fyshe.  Ko!  the  Self  by  Fyshe  Patent  Safety  only  holds 
one.  Built  on  purpose  not  to  be  crowded  by  self-invited 
companions.  [Opens  the  window  and  puts  out  his  hand.] 
It's  going  to  rain.  I  left  my  carriage  at  the  corner;  that 
damned  fellow  before  he  blew  out  his  brains  should  have 
sent  me  back  my  umbrella. 

Mars.  Pshaw!  the  country  wants  rain — the  crops  are 
perishing. 

Fyshe.  Very  likely.  I  don't  grow  oats  and  barley  on  the 
nap  of  my  new  hat.  [Exit. 


SCENE  I]  DARNLEY  357 

Mars.  Ha!  ha!  Go  thy  way,  thou  incarnation  of  the 
languid  egotism  of  the  nineteenth  century.  Like  Major 
Longbow,  if  the  lightning  struclc  thy  bride  in  the  honey- 
moon, thou  would 'st  ring  the  bell  for  thy  valet  to  bring 
clean  glasses,  and  sweep  away  Mrs.  Fyshe.  [Bings  the  bell.'] 
John,  is  my  cab  come? 

John.   Yes,  sir. 

Mars,  \_dressing'].  My  coat.  Certainly,  I  adore  this  Juliet. 
The  eau-de-cologne.  Never  loved  any  one  so  much — except 
Jane,  and  Kate,  and  Caroline;  ah!  and  poor  Susan  [in  an 
altered  voice].  Poor  Susan,  if  she  had  not  left  me  I  had 
been  perhaps  another  man.  Into  how  many  wild  excesses 
have  I  plunged,  to  silence  my  remorse!  But  she  deserted 
me  and  I  am  free.  Plague  on  these  late  hours,  how^  they 
shake  the  nerves.  John,  the  laudanum  drops.  [Drinks.] 
Pshaw!  Again  I  am  a  true  Epicurean.  The  past  is  irrev- 
ocable, the  future  not  at  our  command.  He  who  would 
enjoy  life  must  seize  every  joy  of  the  moment! 

John.  Mr.  Plunder's  bill,  sir,  and  Mr.  Rackett's,  and 
Squabb  the  horsedealer's. 

Mar.    These   are  "messengers   that   feeling   persuade  us 
what  we  are."     John — John — John — one  word  for  all.     It 
hurts    the   feelings   of   a   man   of   honor   not  to   pay   what 
he  fairly  owes.     Spare  my  feelings  and  burn  the  bill. 
[Singing.] 

"C'est  I'artnour,  I'armour 

Qui  fait  le  monde  a  la  ronde, 
Et  chaque  jour,  a  son  lour 

L'amour,  fait  passer  le  monde.'* 

Exit. 


358  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  l 


SCENE   11. 
A  library  in  Darnley's  house. 

Darnley  and  Parsons  (Darnley's  Head  Clerk). 

Darn.  An  imprudent  speculation,  do  you  say,  sir?  A 
company  to  light  the  towns  of  Germany  with  gas! — Buy 
up  all  the  shares  you  can — all.  As  the  loadstone  attracts 
the  needle,  civilization  attracts  capital.  In  the  nineteenth 
century  every  investment  in  Human  Improvement  is  a  safe 
speculation.     Buy  up  the  shares. 

Par.  Well,  sir — as  you  please.  But  these  S^Janish  Funds, 
they  are  falling  sadly.     Better  sell  out. 

Darn.  Sell  out?  pooh!  I  shall  throw  in  another  ten 
thousand,  and  redress  the  market.  Ha,  ha!  the  glorious 
thing  called  cajntal!  I,  a  plain  English  Merchant,  can 
have  an  effect  on  the  very  destinies  of  Spain. 

Par.  But,  sir 

Darn.  I  tell  you  I  know  to-day  when  these  Funds  will 
rise  ten  per  cent.  Here  [gives  a  paper'] — see  to  these 
instructions.  [Exit  Clerk  and  enter  Main  WARING. 

Main.  Ah,  money-making,  money-making — always  mak- 
ing! 

Darn.  Well,  and  what  benefactor  to  the  world  like  the 
money-maker?  Charity  feeds  one  man,  but  Capital  a  mil- 
lion. It  reaches  Genius,  and  up  springs  Art.  It  converts 
the  desert  to  a  garden,  the  hamlet  to  a  city.  Without  com- 
petition no  excellence,  but  without  capital  no  competition. 


SCENE  ii]  DARNLEY  359 

Without  energy  no  virtue,  but  no  energy  without  gold. 
Your  money-maker  is  the  great  civilizer. 

Main.  Hem!  You  are  fortunate  in  having  a  wife  who 
puts  so  much  energy  and  virtue  into  constant  circulation. 

Darn.  Always  some  sneer  at  my  poor  Juliet.    For  shame! 

Main.  For  shame  yourself,  Harry  Darnley!  This  extrav- 
agant wife  of  yours  is 

Darn.   Beware ! 

Main.  Beware  ?  Damme,  sir,  don't  take  that  tone  with 
me!  'Tis  not  generous.  Don't  I  owe  everything  to  you? 
and  does  not  that  give  me  the  right  to  say  whatsoever  I 
please?  When  years  ago,  I,  born  a  gentleman  and  reared 
in  luxury,  was  left  by  my  father's  improvidence  to  poverty 
and  despair — when  but  for  my  young  sister  (then  an  infant 
looking  to  me  for  bread)  I  might  have  sunk  to  the 
cowardice  of  the  suicide — who  alone  remembered  the  old 
schoolfellow  in  the  ruined  pauper?  Who,  not  then  rich 
himself,  came  to  the  sordid  and  wretched  garret?  Who 
gave  a  home  to  my  sister,  a  future  to  my  hope?  Who  was 
that  man?  you,  Harrj'  Darnley,  you!  Blame  yourself  if  I 
am  a  troublesome,  honest,  disagreeable  friend — and  zounds! 
air,  I  don't  care  how  uncomfortable  I  may  make  you,  so 
long  as  1  save  you  from  a  single  sorrow. 

Darn.   My  dear  Mainwaring! 

Main.  Don't  "dear"  me,  sir!  I  won't  be  wheedled  out 
of  my  right  to  reprove  you.  You  procured  me  an  appoint- 
ment abroa<L  I,  too,  became  a  money-maker.  I  saw  my 
sister  grow  up  to  womanhood — fair  and  innocent,  the  joy  of 
my  life.  Suddenly  my  affairs  summoned  me  to  England. 
A  fortune  is  left  me  by  a  relation  whose  name  I  now  bear. 
I  was  absent  but  three  months.  I  returned — my  sister  had 
left  my  roof.     Gone   with  some  villain — gone,   and  not  a 


360  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  I 

word!  Oh,  then  I  knew  the  nothingness  of  the  money- 
making  you  boast  of!  Darnley,  Darnley,  I  tell  you,  gold 
may  civilize  a  nation ;  it  does  not  consecrate  a  home. 

Darn.  Calm  yourself.     Your  sister  may  yet  return. 

Main.  Return  ?  I  would  rather  stand  by  her  grave  than 
look  upon  her  face.  Fortunately  the  estate  bequeathed  me 
obliged  me  to  change  the  name  she  stains  and  bears.  And 
to  you  alone  I  have  confided  the  history  of  her  shame. 
You  said  "Live  with  me,  and  find  the  home  that  you 
have  lost."  I  came — and  you  have  no  home  of  your 
own.  Man  has  no  home  when  the  wife  is  absent  from 
the  hearth. 

"  Darn.  Ah,  that  you   had  seen  the  first  happy  years  of 
our  marriage! 

Main.  They  can  return — if  you  but  exercise  your  rights. 
Taise  warning  from  me.  You  indulge  your  wife  as  I  in- 
dulged my  sister.  My  reward  was  desertion  and  disgrace. 
All  women  are  alike.     Would  you  be  safe?     Be  stern. 

Darn.  What  would  you  have  me  do?  Have  I  not  myself 
encouraged  what  you  ask  me  now  to  reprove?  In  the 
blaze  of  my  sudden  wealth  my  eyes  saw  but  Juliet  shine. 
Too  busy,  perhaps  too  simple  in  my  own  person,  to  enjo;^ 
what  my  millions  placed  at  my  command,  I  enjoyed  it, 
as  it  were,  through  her.  She  was  the  incarnation  of  my 
wealth.  The  splendor  of  my  fortune  became  visible  in 
the  delight  that  it  gave  to  her.  Recall  the  difference  of 
our  years.  Shall  I  bid  her  renounce  her  youth,  because 
the  pleasures  of  youth  are  but  dull  to  me? 

Main.  Among  the  pleasures  of  youth,  do  you  include 
a  handsome,  good-for-nothing  cousin? 

Darn.  Hold,  hold!  [checking  himself}.  Nay,  man,  indulge 
your  spleen — I  have  no  cause  for  fear. 


SCENE  II]  DARNLEY  361 

Main,  A  man  who  counts  on  the  faith  of  a  woman  has 
everything  to  fear. 

Darn.  And  the  moment  a  husband  shows  such  fear,  dig- 
nity and  trust  are  gone  forever.  His  happiness  is  in  his 
wife's  love,  his  honor  in  her  virtue.  I  will  not  forfeit  the 
one  by  harshness,  nor  shake  the  other  by  distrust.  Juliet 
may  have  faults,  but  her  heart  is  generous.  For  the  faults 
of  the  generous  what  cure  so  efEectual  as  confidence  and 
indulgence?  \_Seats  himself.']  Enough.  What  are  these? 
"Designs  for  Elgrove  Lodge,  the  villa  of  Henry  Darnlej, 
Esq.,  after  the  Alhambra." 

Main.  Oh,  yes.  Lady  Juliet's  last  proof  of  generosity. 
1  never  knew  a  woman  more  generous  with  her  husband's 
fortune. 

[Folding  doors  oi^ien.    Enter  Lady  Juliet,  Fyshe,  Miss 
Placid  {tatting).^  and  Sir  Francis  Marsden. 

Lady  J.  Yes,  I  must  show  you  the  drawings  for  our  villa. 
A  thousand  pardons,  dear  Henry,  for  so  abrupt  an  invasion. 
Look,  Sir  Francis,  are  they  not  charming  ? 

Mars.  Superb!  after  the  Alhambra.  Ah,  the  style's  so 
effective;  then,  too,  the  associations.  I  always  found  the 
highest  interest  in  the  accounts  of  the  Moors 

Darn.  Really!  I  had  fancied  you  had  found  a  still  higher 
interest  in  the  accounts  of  the  Jews. 

Mars.   [cLside'].   Hang  his  impertinence! 

Lady  J.  You  must  like  the  idea.  Next  week  we'll  begin. 
You  can't  guess  my  impatience. 

Darn.  Still,  it  takes  some  time  to  move  an  Alhambra  all 
the  way  from  Granada.     Give  me  leave  to  consider. 

Lady  J.  Consider?     I  hate  consideration.     Next  month, 

you  know,  I  may  care  nothing  about  it. 

Main.  Very  true.  This  month  'tis  an  Alhambra  on  the 
Bulwer,  Vol.  XXX  *P 


362  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  I 

banks  of  the  Thames.  Next  month  it  will  be  a  Pagoda  at 
the  top  of  St.  Paal's! 

Lady  J.  Ha!  ha!  I  dare  say  it  will.  But,  meanwhile,  why 
not  all  go  to  Elgrove  to-day,  and  examine  its  Moorish  capa- 
bilities? 

Darn.   To-day?  ah!  to-day  I  am  so  busy. 

Mars.  Fyshe,  here's  an  opportunity  for  urging  your  suit 
to  Miss  Placid.  Press  Lady  Juliet  to  go.  The  loveliest 
villa! 

Fyshe.  I  hate  villas,  they're  full  of  earwigs  and  thorough 
draughts.    * 

Miss  P:  Come,  Mr.  Main  waring!  Since  Mr.  Fyshe  does 
not  go,  you  must  be  my  cavalier. 

Fyshe.  She's  piqued,  poor  thing!  1  suppose  I  must  go. 
{To  Mainwaring.)  Always  tatting — the  quietest  creature! 
We  can  put  up  all  the  windows,  and  sit  down  to  rest,  the 
moment  we  arrive. 

Lady  J.  [luho  has  heen  conversing  iviih  Daknley].  Well, 
then,  it's  arranged.  Adieu,  Henry.  Mr.  Fyshe,  will  you 
take  the  designs?  And,  oh,  this  book, — Eobert's  Views  of 
the  Alhambra!     1  shall  be  back  early. 

Darn.  Will  you?  a  thousand  thanks! 

Lady  J.  Oh,  yes.  For  the  opera.  Well,  Mr.  Main- 
waring,  how  do  you  like  me  in  this  bonnet  of  Herboult's? 

Main.   Not  at  all. 

Lady  J.  I  admire  your  sincerity,  and  compassionate  your 
taste.  Mr.  Fyshe,  will  you  charge  yourself  with  my 
parasol ? 

Miss  P.   And  mine. 

Lady  J.  Oh!  and  where  is  poor  little  Shock?  he  will 
break  his  heart  if  I  leave  him! 

Mars.  Run  for  Shock,  Fyshe,  he's  in  his  basket. 


SCENE  m]  DARNLEY  ^  363 

Fyshe.  Run  yourself.  Shock  bites.  Miss  Placid,  under 
my  right  arm  a  small  cavity  is  still  left. 

Miss  P.  Won't  you  come,  Mr.  Mainwaring? 

Main.  No. 

Miss  P.  Heigh  ho!  Mr,  Fyshe,  I  shall  tat  all  the  way. 

Fyshe.  It's  a  charming  accomplishment,  and  refreshingly 
noiseless. 

Mars.  Good-by,  Darnley.     We  shall  miss  you  dreadfully. 

Darn.  To  be  missed  by  Sir  Francis  is  an  honor  that  can 
even  console  for  the  loss  of  his  company. 

Main.   Ha!  ha! 

Mars.  \disconcerted^  and  offering  his  arrn].  Come,  Lady 
Juliet — allo7is! 

Darn,  [stopping  hini].  You  forget — this  arm  is  destined  to 
Shock.  You  must  go  for  him.  Take  care.  He  is  snappish, 
but  if  you  handle  him  properly  you  will  find  him  as  harm- 
less a  puppy  as — the  rest  of  his  species. 

Mars,   [enraged].   Sir,  I [Aside.]  Damn  it,  the  master 

bites  worse  than  the  dog.  [Exit. 

Darn,  [as  Mars,  goes  out'].  Adieu,  Lady  Juliet.  This 
poor  Marsden!  what  a  good  creature  it  is. 

[Exeunt  Lady  Juliet,  Fyshe,  and  Miss  P. 


SCENE  111. 

Mainwaring  and  Darnley. 

Darn.  My  heart  stands  still.     Yes,  I  fear  that  man  I 

Mam.  Most  complaisant  of  husbands! 

Darn.  I've  a  great  mind  to  call  her  back. 

Main.  A  cousin  is  so  proper  a  companion! 


S64-  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  i 

Darn.  She  shall  not  go. 

Main.  Ha!  ha! 

Darn.  She  shall  not — [going  to  the  door].     [Enter  Lady  J. 

Lady  J.  My  heart  chides  me— clear  Henry !  Perhaps  after 
all  you  wish  me  to  stay  at  home? 

Main.  To  be  sure  he  does. 

Darn.  No,  my  dear  Juliet,  I'm  not  so  selfish.  And  yet — 
[aside'] — out  on  my  jealous  heart! 

Lady  J.   Yet  what  ? 

Darn.  If  you  had  another  female  companion! 

Lady  J.  True.     I  will  take  old  Lady  Babbleton. 

Darn,  [aside].  I  will  give  her  a  safer  companion  for  a 
young  wife.     [Aloud.]  Why  not  take  your  child? 

Lo.dy  J.  Ah,  yes — dear  Fanny!  that  will  be  charming; 
now,  indeed,  I  shall  scarcely  miss  you. 

Darn.  The  weight's  gone.  She  does  not  fear  the  eyes  of 
her  child. 

Lady  J.  Grave  still  ? 

Darn.  No,  happy  in  your  happiness.  Go,  my  Juliet,  and 
be  gay.  Gayety  with  you  is  but  the  natural  language  of 
innocence  and  youth.  [Oyens  the  door  for  her. 

Main.   What!  going  after  all? 

Lady  J.  With  your  leave.  Ha,  ha!  see  how  awful  he 
looks.  Poor  bachelor!  what  can  he  know  of  us  strange 
married  folks?     Poor  Mainwaring! 

Darn.   Ha!  ha!  poor  Mainwaring!    [Kissing  her  hand.] 

[Exit  Lady  J. 

Main.  I've  done  with  you! 

Darn.  Nay,  forgive  me.    After  all,  what  a  temper  she  has! 

Main.  Oh,  charming!  The  true  female  mixture  for  cur- 
ing refractory  husbands.  Three  drachms  of  the  steel  of 
obstinacy  to  an  ounce  of  the  oil  of  coaxing. 


SCENE  III]  DAENLEY  365 

Darn.  Obstinacy?     Never  contradicts! 

Main.  And  always  has  her  own  way. 

Darn.  Ever  ready  to  yield  her  inclination  to  mine  I 

Main.  And  ever  doing  every  mischief  she's  inclined  to. 

Darn.  Hum! 

Main.  Hum! 

Darn.  This  Alhambra  will  cost  thousands — Well,  I  can 
the  less  afford  to  be  idle.  Come  with  me  to  the  City.  I 
want  to  consult  you.  Such  a  vast  speculation !  If  it  suc- 
ceeds, I  shall  clear  half  a  million. 

Main.  And  would  be  just  as  happy  without  it. 

Darn.  True!  The  money  is  nothing — but,  oh,  the  ex- 
citement of  the  pursuit!  For  the  happy,  sweet  must  be 
repose.  For  the  disappointed,  no  solace  but  in  action! 
In  the  fever  of  our  schemes  we  forget  the  goad  of  our 
cares.  I  seem  to  rise  from  the  earth  when  I  return  to  my 
desk. 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Sir,  a  lady  wishes  to  see  you  in  the  library. 

Darn.   A what? 

Servant.   A  lady,  sir.     She  will  not  give  her  name. 

Darn.  Pshaw!  I'm  busy. 

Servant.  She  seems  in  distress,  sir.  [Aside.l  1  knew  that 
would  touch  him. 

Darn.  In  distress?  I  won't  keep  her  a  moment.  You 
see,  while  there's  distress  on  the  earth  there's  something 
godlike  in  making  money. 

Main.  Some  pinched  old  beggar,  eh  ? 

[Taking  out  his  purse. 

Servant.  No,  so  young,  and  so  handsome,  sir! 

Main,  [putting  up  his  purse"].  Then,  I'll  keep  my  mite  for 
the  old  and  the  ugly.     [Exit  Servant.]     If  Darnley  were  a 


366  BULWER-S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  i 

man  to  be  seduced,  that  sort  of  beggar  would  find  this 
a  lucky  time  for  her  purpose.  'Tis  an  ominous  conjunction 
for  a  poor  dog  of  a  husband,  when  the  wife  goes  a-gadding, 
and  young  girls  come  a-begging.  Oh,  these  women,  these 
women,  what  torments  they  are!  There's  that  malignant 
Amelia,  asking  me  to  go  to  the  villa  that  I  might  see  her 
angling  for  Fyshe.  Oh,  but  he  has  money!  and  I  verily 
think  that,  for  the  sake  of  a  handsome  settlement,  a  woman 
would  marry  a  gudgeon,  and  live  in  a  pond. 

Enter  Darnley, 

Darn.  My  poor  Mainjyaring — I  mean  my  dear  friend — 
How  can  I  get  him  out  of  the  house?  Oh,  will  you 
kindly  take  these  papers  to  Parsons,  my  clerk?  I  will 
meet  you  in  an  hour — at  my  office — pray  go  instantly! 

Main.  What  the  deuce  is  the  matter?  This  young  lady's 
distress  seems  to  move  you  very  much. 

Darn.  It  does,  indeed — that  is — I — but  be  off,  I  beseech 
you!  Parsons  must  have  these  papers  before  the  markets 
are  closed. 

Main.   But 

Darn.  [2:>ushing  him  out].  There's  your  hat — and  your 
stick.     Take  a  cab,  or  you  won't  be  in  time. 

Main.  Oh,  these  women,  these  women!  old  and  young, 
giddy  and  sober,  sinner  and  saint,  it's  all  alike  to  them. 

Darn.   'Sdeath,  man,  if  my  character — 

Main.  Character?  Lord  help  you,  they've  no  more  re- 
spect for  a  man's  character  than  a  wolf  has  for  a  lamb's. 
Well,  I  go,  I  go.  Take  care  of  yourself.  Don't  let  her 
cry.  Hold  your  character  well  over  your  head.  But,  when 
a  woman  once  takes  to  crying,  you'll  find  it  a  very  sorry 
umbrella.  [Exit  Mainwaring. 


SCENE  iiij  DARNLEY  367 

Darn.  Thank  Heaven,  he's  gone!  [^Rings.']  [Enter  Ser- 
vant.]    Not  at  home  to  a  soul — send  for  the  chariot. 

[Exit  Servant. 

Where  can  I  find  her  lodging?  Where  I  may  visit  her 
unknown?  So  young,  so  charming!  In  my  whole  life  I've 
never  been  more  touched  and  affected.  [Exit. 


S68  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ii 


ACT   II.— SCENE   I. 

Draioing-room  in  Daknley's  house. 

Enter  Servant  preceding  Marsden  and  Fyshe. 

Fyshe.  It  is  Miss  Placid  I  wish  to  see. 

Servant.  Yes,  sir.  [Exit. 

Mars,   What!  are  you  about  to  propose? 

Fyshe.  Not  exactly.  There  are  many  things  to  consider 
before  one  admits  another  to  the  right  of  sharing  one's  ex- 
istence, and  crowding  one's  carriage.  The  girl's  certainly 
quiet  and  silent.  But  has  she  all  the  other  qualifications 
for  a  conjugal  partner?  There's  the  question!  Take  off 
all  trouble,  claim  no  authority,  recollect  what  one  likes 
when  she  orders  the  dinner,  and  never  presume  to  appro- 
priate to  herself  the  liver- wing  of  the  chicken? 

Mars.  A  most  original  epitome  of  a  bridegroom's  expec- 
tations and  a  bride's  perfections!  I  think  Miss  Placid  will 
suit  you  exactly.  A  picture  of  still  life,  fraiiied  in  white 
muslin. 

Fyshe.  Yes,  but  I'm  very  comfortable  as  a  bachelor;  and 
though,  as  you  say,  the  picture  is  one  of  very  still  life, 
I  would  not  hang  it  up  in  my  drawing-room  if  it  were 
worth  less  than  £30,000.  [Looking  out,  aside.]  This  fel- 
low's in  my  way.  [Aloud.]  When  Miss  Placid  comes 
you'll  be  good  enough  to  go? 


SCENE  I]  DARNLEY  369 

Mars.  Oil,  certainly.  Lady  Jaliet  will  receive  me  in  her 
boudoir. 

Fyshe.  Ever  since  that  excursion  to  the  villa,  you've 
made  way  in  her  ladyship's  heart. 

Mars.  I've  not  come  yet  to  the  heart,  but  I'm  on  the 
highroad, — through  the  fancy.  Still,  shall  I  own  it?  my 
conscience  is  a  perpetual  check  on  my  hopes.  Ah,  what 
would  I  give  to  detect  some  frailty  in  Darnley,  to  justify 
the  diversion  of  Juliet's  affections! 

Fyshe  [aside].  What  would  he  give?  What  has  he  got 
that  would  be  useful  to  me?  Hum — ha.  Frailty — ha — 
hum. 

Mars.   But  that  is  impossible! 

Fyshe.  Impossible?     That's  very  good — hum — ha. 

Mars.   What  do  you  know  of 

Fyshe.  I — it's  not  my  business  to  know  anything.  Noth- 
ing to  be  got  by  meddling  with  other  people's  affairs — 
hum — ha. 

Mars.  This  fellow  has  certainly  wormed  out  a  secret;  but 
he'll  never  give  even  a  secret  for  nothing.  You  affect  to 
be  mighty  wise.  Master  Fyshe;  but  I  bet  you  my  brown 
cob  (the  one  1  refused  to  sell  you  last  week)  to  the  old  um- 
brella you  got  back  from  poor  Squander's  executors,  that 
you  can't  say  a  word  against  Darnley's  moral  reputation. 

Fyshe.  Will  you?     The  brown  cob?     Done. 

Mars.  Done. 

Fyshe.  It  never  stumbles? 

Mars.  No. 

Fyshe.  Darnley  does.  I've  a  villa  in  St.  John's  Wood 
— my  aunt's  legacy.  I  told  my  agent  to  let  it.  He  has 
done  so — to  a  female — young  and  exceedingly  pretty.  By 
the  bye,  you  will  throw  in  the  bridle  and  saddle? 


370  BULWER^S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ii 

Mars.  Yes,  yes!     For  Heaven's  sake  go  on. 

Fyshe.  Darnlej  pays  the  rent — the  establishment,  the  bills 
— keeps  the  lady  a  carriage,  and  visits  her  almost  daily. 

Mars.  The  formal  hypocrite!     Are  you  sure? 

Fyshe.  Sure?  Have  not  1  bet  my  umbrella?  There's 
the  address.  Saw  the  girl  with  my  own  eyes,  when  I 
called  about  moving  some  things  of  mine.  Darnley  don't 
know  I'm  the  owner — settles  all  with  the  agent.  Don't 
mention  me  as  your  authority. 

Mars.  My  last  scruple  is  vanished ! 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  My  lady  will  see  you,  Sir  Francis. 
Mars.  I  come.     Aha,  saintly  sinner! 
Fyshe.  You  are  sure  it's  quite  safe? 
Mars.  Safe? 
Fyshe.  The  cob. 

Mars.  Oh,  certainly,  and  if  ever  it  grows  restive,  you  can 
lend  it  to  the  future  Mrs.  Fyshe.  \_Exit. 

Enter  Miss  Placid,  tatting. 

Fyshe.  Heaven  forbid  Mrs.  Fyshe  should  do  anything 
so  boisterous  as  ride.  Ah,  Miss  Placid,  always  occupied  ? 
A  nice  employment!     Better  than  singing — not  so  noisy. 

Miss  P.  You  don't  like  noisy  people? 

Fyshe.  No,  indeed.     You  agree  with  me? 

[Miss  Placid  nods  assent. 

Fyshe.  Man's  first  care  should  be  his  health.  Noise  shat- 
ters the  nerves,  and  disturbs  the  digestion. 

[Miss  Placid  nods. 

Fyshe.  What  a  dumb  little  thing  she  is!     She  was  born 


SCENE  I]  DARNLEY  371 

to  be  a  Fyshe!  A-hem!  You  know,  my  dear  young  lady, 
the  wishes  of  my  poor  friend,   your  late  uncle? 

Miss  P.  Yes — he  wished  me  to  marry  you,  I  cannot 
guess  why. 

Fyshe.  Charming  simplicity!  Yoar  uncle  consulted 
your  happiness  in  choosing  a  man  of  good  fortune  and 
moral  character.  I  never  gamble — it's  expensive.  I  never 
drink — it's  unhealthy.  I  never  flirt — for  it's  troublesome. 
In  short,  I  may  say  without  vanity  that,  thinking  that  vice 
always  injures  one's  self — I  have  not  a  vice  in  the  world. 
That's  why  your  uncle  chose  me. 

Miss  P.  But  my  uncle  said  you  were  very  sensible,  and 
3'ou  know  I'm  rather  silly  than  not. 

Fyshe.  So  much  the  better.  "What  they  call  a  superior 
woman  is  always  fidgety,  and  generally  cracked. 

Miss  P.  But  they  say,  Mr.  Fyshe,  married  people  ought 
to  love  each  other.     I  am  afraid  I  sha'n't  love  you. 

Fyshe.  Love?  Human  Nature  was  not  made  for  such 
violent  emotions.  Love — the  Enemy  of  Repose  and  the 
Prompter  of  Dyspepsia! 

Miss  P.  Heigho!  I  don't  think  I  can  marry  you — I  don't 
indeed.  And  as  for  the  forfeit  of  £15,000  if  I  refuse  you — 
you  are  too  generous  to  take  it. 

Fyshe.  You  render  justice  to  my  disposition.  But  I  must 
do  my  duty,  however  painful — ^and  in  money  matters  a  con- 
scientious man  owes  a  duty  to  himself. 

Miss  P.  \_aside'\.  Odious  creature!  [Aloud.']  But  is  my 
uncle's  will  so  decisive? 

Fyshe.  It  is  indeed.     Shall  I  bring  you  my  copy? 

Miss  P.  Yes — to-morrow  at  tw^elve. — One  can't  give  up  so 
much  money. 

Fyshe.  A  very  sensible  remark.     Ah,  Miss  Amelia,  be- 


372  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ll 

lieve  me,  we  shall  be  exceedingly  happy.  Fyshe  Hall  is 
the  quietest  place — game  in  abundance  and  the  poultry 
superb.  By  the  way,  what  part  of  the  chicken  do  you 
prefer  ? 

Miss  P.  I've  no  preference. 

Fyshe.  Thank  Heaven!  the  liver-wing  is  safe!  No  pref- 
erence? Excellent  creature — a  perfect  treasure!  [Passion- 
ately.'] Oh,  my  Amelia,  my  Amelia! 

Miss  P.  La!  you  frighten  me.  Go  away,  now,  and  at 
twelve  to-morrow. 

Fyshe.  I  will  call  with  the  will.  [Admirihgly.']  How 
serenely  she  tats!  Nothing  disturbs  her.  Made  on  pur- 
pose for  me — quite  an  automaton!  Might  as  well  not  be 
married  at  all.     Ah,  I'm  a  lucky  dog!     Adieu,  my  Amelia. 

[Exit. 

Miss  P.  The  monster!  I  could  hardly  help  boxing  his 
ears.  They  said  he  was  so  sensible.  I  thought  to  revolt 
him  by  playing  the  fool.  O  woman's  wit,  quicken  my  in- 
vention! Ah,  he  hates  noisy  people,  does  he?  If  I  could 
but  save  the  forfeit,  and  bring  my  whole  fortune  to  that 
dear  rude  disagreeable  Mainwaring — that  is,  provided  that 
dear   rude    disagreeable    Mainwaring    will    condescend    to 

accept  me. 

Entei'  Mainwaring. 

Main.  I  wish  I  was  a  book — or  a  chair — or  a  table — or  a 
pair  of  tongs — or  a  hearthrug — or  a  philosopher — anything 
that  don't  feel. 

Miss  P.  Always  in  a  passion!  Why  don't  you  take  to 
tatting?     Come,  I'll  teach  you. 

Main.  Don't  be  pert,  child! 

Miss  P.  Don't  be  saucy,  man!  Sit  down.  Just  wind  this 
on  the  shuttle. 


SCENE  I]  DARNLEY  373 

Main.  Pshaw! 

Miss  P.  What,  unkind?  When  I  wish  to  consult  youl 
I'm  very  unhappy! 

Main.  Unhappy!     You — how — what! 

Miss  P.   Sit  down. 

Main,  [sitting].  Yes;  but  unhappy 

Miss  P.   Wind  this  carefully. 

Main,  [winding  the  skein  rapidly^  and  into  most  horrible 
confusion].  Certainly:  but  unhappy? 

Miss  P.  [aside  hut  affected].  Dear  Mainwaring!  [Aloud.] 
You  know  that  I  forfeit  half  my  fortune  if  I  refuse  to  marry 
Mr.  Fyshe. 

Main.  Oh,  you'll  marry  him.  Anything  rather  than  lose 
money! 

Miss  P.  Very  true ! 

Main.  Very  true?     There's  a  mercenary  baggage  I 

Miss  P.  But  if  I've  no  affection  for  him? 

Main.  So  much  the  better.  What's  affection,  but  the 
power  we  give  another  to  torment  us? 

Miss  P.  Well,  I  suppose  you're  right;  and  if  you  advise 
me  to  marry,  I've  that  confidence  in  your  judgment — that 
desire  for  your  approbation —  [Offering  to  take  his  hand. 

Main.  Don't  touch  me! 

Miss  P.  [aside].  He  loves  me!  [Aloud.]  Well,  bat  if  Mr. 
Fyshe  does  as  you  do — refuse  my  hand — I  preserve  my 
fortune. 

Main.  Ah,  that's  the  great  consideration! 

Miss  P.  Why,  one's  never  thought  half  so  good-looking 
when  one  has  lost  half  one's  fortune.  Who'd  marry  poor 
me  except  for  my  money  ? 

Main.  Who?  I  know  a  fool  who,  if  it  were  not  for  your 
money,  would — but,  no — you're  too  pretty  for  him. 


874                        BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ii 

Miss  P.  What,  would  he  marry  me  if  I  lost 


Main.  Every  farthing!  I  dare  say  he  would — but,  then, 
he  is  a  fool. 

Miss  P.  Tell  me  more  of  him !  Is  he  very  agreeable,  and 
good-tempered,  and  handsome? 

Main.  No,  a  quarrelsome,  violent,  testy,  ill-looking  brute. 
Pshaw!  take  your  skein! 

Miss  P.  Well,  I  know  one  thing.  I  never  will  marry 
Mr.  Fyshe,  or  any  one  else,  till  I  see  Mr.  Darnley  and 
Lady  Juliet  as  happy  as  they  deserve. 

Main.  Ah,  that  reminds  me — Poor  Darnley!  poor  fellow! 

Miss  P.  What  has  happened  ? 

Main.  What,  have  you  not  heard  ?  This  last  speculation 
of  Darnley's — a  very  vast  one — has  failed.  His  credit  is 
shaken.  There  is  a  run  on  his  house.  And,  foremost 
among  those  who  press  on  the  husband  are  the  creditors 
whose  claims  have  been  created  by  his  wife. 

Miss  P.  Is  it  possible?  The  rich  Mr.  Darnley!  the 
millionnaire! 

Main.  Yes,  the  man  never  satisfied  with  one  million,  if 
he  could  grasp  at  two!  But,  why  do  I  blame  him?  It  con- 
tents a  man  to  count  the  smiles  upon  the  faces  of  wife  and 
children;  but  it  never  contents  him  to  count  his  gold.  If 
Darnley,  driven  by  regret  and  disappointment  to  seek  the 
excitement  of  the  speculator,  is  a  bankrupt — to-morrow  let 
his  fine-lady  wife  blame  herself,  and  be  hanged  to  her! 

Miss  P.  Hush! 

Darn,  [without].  Very  well.  Let  him  wait  in  my  study. 
He  shall  be  paid.  [Enter  J) A.vn^'LWi:  followed  hy  Servant. 

Servant.  And,  please,  sir — Madame  Cramousin  has  been 
very  troublesome — called  twice  this  morning 

Darn.  Madame  Cramousin?     Who's  she? 


SCENE  I]  DARNLEY  375 

Servant.  My  lady's  dressmaker. 

Darn.  True.  Let  her  send  her  receipt  to  my  office  to- 
morrow.    Well,  Amelia,  where  is  Lady  Juliet? 

Miss  P.  In  her  boudoir. 

Darn.   Alone? 

Miss  P.  Little  Fanny  is  with  her. 

Darn.  Any  one  else  ? 

Miss  P.  I — I'm  not  sure. 

Darn.  She  falters!  Torture,  she  too  suspects — \_Galmly.'\ 
Well,  and — and   her  cousin — my — my  friend,  Marsden 

Main.  Oh,  that's  of  course! 

Darn,  [cifter  a  ^Ja^^5e].  But,  you  say  that — her  child  is 
with  her  f 

Miss  P.  Yes,  and  Sir  Francis  only  called  to  bring  Fanny 
a  puzzle  of  the  History  of  England,  which  he's  helping  her 
to  put  together,  [lb  Mainwaring.]  Mischief-maker!  My 
shuttle,  sir.  A  pretty  confusion  you  make  of  things  when 
you  take  them  in  hand.      You  tat,  indeed!  \_Exit. 

Main.  That  girl  bewitches  me.  I  wish  I  was  gay,  and 
handsome,  and  rich.  No !  I  wish  I  was  a  poker,  a  hearth- 
rug, a  philosopher.  What  a  beast  I  am!  thinking  of  my- 
self, and  Darnley  sad!  [_Ooes  up  to  Darnley,  puts  his  hand 
on  Ms  shoulder^  and  with  feeling  .'\  My  friend! 

Darn.  Those  bills  of  Marsden's  that  you  bought  up 
at  my  request,  some  time  since  —  they  are  due  this 
week? 

Main.  Yes,  the  improvident  rascal.  Bills  for  £10,000, 
and  the  brokers  sold  them  for  two — the  worst  speculation 
you  ever  made! 

Darn.  \to  himself}.  The  time  is  past  when  Knowledge 
was  Power!     Money  is  power,  and  I  will  wield  it! 

Main,    [overhearing].    Money,   power?     No!    can    money 


376  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ir 

insure  you  a  wife's  love?  Can  money  buy  me  back  a 
sister's  virtue? 

Darn.  A  sister!  Ah,  Mainwaring,  be  not  so  hard.  If 
your  sister  were  less  guilty  than  you  deem  her,  if 

Main.  Cease! 

Darn.  Can  no  suffering  atone?  no  penitence  win  your 
pardon  ? 

Main,  [fiercely].  Yes!  when  she  has  told  me  the  name 
of  her  betrayer.  Yes!  when  his  heart's  blood  has  washed 
away  my  shame.     Not  till  then! 

Darn,   [aside'].  I  must  wait  some  happier  moment. 

Main.  Let's  talk  the  news — the  weather — the  markets. 
How  go  affairs  to-day! 

Darn.  New  losses.  The  next  few  days  my  house  will  be 
sorely  tried.     Let  the  waves  beat — we  are  on  a  rock. 

Mai?!.  Lady  Juliet's  extravagance  could  give  a  shock  to 
Gribraltar. 

Darn.  Well,  it  must  be  checked  when  this  crisis  is  once 
past. 

Main.  What  time  so  fit  as  the  present?  Why  not  take 
this  very  hour  to  rouse  her  conscience  by  the  sight  of  her 
folly? 

Darn.  Why?  Simply  because  I  love  her!  Because  this 
extravagance  it  pleased  me  to  indulge.  Because  this  wealth, 
which  has  been  to  me  but  a  burden,  a  drudgery  and  a  toil, 
became  bright  and  glorious  when  it  invested  her  with  the 
splendor  of  a  queen.  And  now,  even  now,  grasper  and 
speculator  as  men  deem  me, — it  is  not  the  fear  of  poverty 
that  makes  my  heart  sick,  and  my  brain  dizzy.  Fortune 
once  lost  can  be  repaired.  But,  Home — Honor — Happi- 
ness— these  lost,  what  philosophy  can  console,  what  energy 
restore?     Mainwaring,  you  are  right.     Money  is  not  Power! 


SCENE  I]  DARNLEY  377 

Main.  Pardon  me  that  I  have  so  pained  you!  But,  now 
that  you  are  roused  from  your  seeming  indifference,  all  will 
be  well.  Assert  your  authority.  Eeprove  Lady  Jaliet  for 
her  levity.     Thrust  this  gay  Lothario  from  your  house. 

Darn.  And  so,  perhaps,  root  him  in  her  heart.  Shall  I, 
who  have  sworn  to  honor  and  cherish  the  young  creature 
that  came  to  my  hearth  without  one  stain  upon  her  soul — 
shall  I,  perhaps  for  a  groundless  fear,  a  visionary  doubt, 
proclaim  the  jealousy  that  brings  disgrace?  When  did  the 
world  ever  acquit  the  wife  whom  the  husband  sullies  by 
suspicion?  Shall  I  suffer  this  man,  whose  vanity  would 
exult  even  in  the  obstacle  to  his  crime,  to  tell  to  every 
gossip  how  he  made  the  proud  Darnley  tremble  for  his 
honor?  And  what  should  I  gain?  If  as  yet  she  is  indif- 
ferent to  him,  my  harshness,  that  would  insult  her,  might 
invest  him  with  attractions  not  his  own.  If  she  loves  him 
— if — if — O  Heaven!  her  virtue — I  fear  not  that!  But,  her 
heart f  There  1  am  a  coward!  [^Pauses^  in  great  disorder.'] 
No,  no!  As  I  have  begun  so  will  I  proceed.  I  will  not 
combat  mine  enemy  with  his  own  weapons,  but  I  will  de- 
base him  with  my  contempt,  and,  if  need  be,  I  will  crush 
him  with  my  gold!  And  for  Juliet — for  her  whose  affection 
I  have  cherished  with  a  miser's  care — for  her,  there  shall 
be  no  meaner  guardians  than  the  wife's  purity,  and  the 
husband's  trust. 

Enter  Fanny. 

Fan.  Papa,  dear  papa! 
Darn.  My  pretty  one! 

Fan.  Mamma  has  just  heard  you  are  come  in.  Pray 
go  to  her! 

Darn.  Does  she  wish  it? 


878  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ii 

Fan.  To  be  sure.  You'll  see  how  nicely  I've  done  the 
puzzle  Sir  Francis  brought  me. 

Darn,  [putting  her  aside].  Ah,  Sir  Francis.  You  love 
him? 

Fan.   No,  I  don't. 

Darn,   [smiling'].  Why,  my  Fanny? 

Fan.  Because  he's  a  naughty  man,  and  tells  stories. 

Darn.   Eh? 

Fan.  Yes,  only  think!  He  tells  mamma  he's  so  fond 
of  [mimicking]  "sweet  little  Fanny," — and  1  heard  him 
tell  Mr.  Fyshe,  I  was  a  troublesome  little  thing,  always  in 
the  way.  Not  like  dear  good  scolding  Mr.  Mainwaring, 
who  don't  say  one  thing  and  mean  another.  Where's  my 
doll,  sir? 

Main.  My  darling,  I've  got  it  for  you.  Such  a  beauty! 
Come  into  the  nursery,  come! 

Darn.  And  I  shall  see  Marsden  with  her.      Courage! 

[Fxeunt  severally. 


SCENE   II. 
Lady  Juliet's  Boudoir. 

Lady  Juliet  and  Marsden  seated. 

Mars.  Nay,  I  cannot  agree  with  you,  my  fair  cousin. 
I  cannot  believe  that  persons  can  be  permanently  happy 
•with  dissimilar  dispositions;  that  the  grave  can  harmonize 
with  the  gay,  or  methodical  reason  with  joyous  fancy. 

Lady  J.  Have  you  never  seen  the  grandsire  playing  with 
the  grandchild?  What  so  dissimilar?  The  old  man  to 
whom  the  world  itself  is  worn  and  hackneyed;    the   infant 


SCENE  II]  DARNLEY  379 

who  finds  a  plaything  even  in  the  gray  locks  of  age!  Y"et 
the  old  man's  brow  smooths  from  its  furrows  at  the  merry 
laugh  of  the  infant;  and  the  infant  will  steal  from  his  noisy 
playmates  to  clamber  up  the  old  man's  knee.  Can  you  not 
conceive  that  light  lends  a  joy  to  shadow,  and  shadow  gives 
repose  to  light  ? 

Mars.  Grrandsire  and  grandchild!  an  innocent  illustration. 
I  spoke  of  two  persons  linked  in  nearer  union.  Lovers,  or 
— married. 

Lady  J.  Well,  take  even  the  married.  Henry  and  my- 
self. 1  so  frivolous,  he  so  wise.  1  the  creature  of  every 
impulse,  he  so  serene  and  calm.  Were  he  like  me,  I  fear 
I  should  despise  him.  Were  I  like  him,  I  should  tease 
him  less — but  should  I  please  him  more! 

Mars.  Ah,  my  fair  cousin,  you  take  ground  I  may  not 
venture  to  dispute.  Still,  do  you  not  deny  the  charm  that 
you  have  not  known  ? — the  perfect  harmony  of  character, 
the  interchange  of  two  hearts  that  beat  with  a  common 
pulse;  thoughts,  feelings  the  echo  of  each  other — if  you 
are  sad,  all  cloud  for  the  one  that  loves  jo\x]  if  gay,  all 
sunshine. 

Lady  J.   [half  touched].  Ah,  that  is  poetry.     Is  it  life? 

Mars.  Life,  real  life — if  we  but  dare  to  seize  it.  [Enter 
Daknley.]  If,  when  we  find  the  one  congenial  spirit, 
never  found  but  once,  we  can  free  one's  self  from  the  cold 
thraldom  of  the  world — if  we  can  see,  through  all  things, 
but  the  one  dear,  ever-gracious,  ever- welcome  image  of — 
Damn  it!    the  husband! 

Darn.  Go  on,  pray!  Charming!  "Congenial  spirit" — 
"cold  thraldom" — "ever  welcome  image." — Some  scene 
out  of  the   Sorrows  of  Werter,    eh? 

Mars.  I — I  was  saying — that  is,  I  was  remarking  to  Lady 


380  BULWER'S   DRAMATIC   WORKS  [act  ii 

Juliet  that,  as  a  general  proposition — that  in  short  merely 
as  a  philosophical  observation — you  understand — 

Darn.  Perfectly.  As  a  philosophical  observation — a  con- 
genial disposition 

Mars,  Exactly  so — is  a  very  agreeable  sort  of  thing. 

Darn.  The  peroration  is  less  brilliant  than  the  exordium, 
— eh,  Juliet?  This  poor  Marsden!  As  they  say  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  his  delivery  is  not  equal  to  his 
matter. 

Mars,  [aside].   Confusion! 

Lady  J.  My  cousin  is  abashed  by  your  irony.  We  were 
discussing  a  foolish  question  and  disagreed.  How  did  it 
begin?  Oh,  apropos  of  Mr.  Fyshe  and  Amelia.  My  dear 
Henry,  you  will  never  consent  to  such  a  sacrifice  ? 

Darn.  Amelia  is  now  of  age,  and  can  decide  for  herself. 
Mr.  Fyshe  has  one  recommendation.  He  is  Sir  Francis 
Marsden's  friend. 

Lady  J.  Friend  ?     He  cares  for  nobody  but  himself. 

Darn.  He  has  the  character  of  being  exceedingly  sensible. 

Lady  J.  Because  he  never  neglects  his  own  interest. 

Darn.  And  of  being  scrupulously  moral,  and  prudently 
economical. 

Lady  J.  Because  he  is  too  covetous  to  spend,  and  too 
passionless  to  feel. 

Darn.  You  show  great  discernment  in  character.  You 
are  right.  There  is  one  class  of  men  too  egotistical  for 
error.  There  is  another  class  whose  egotism  is  less  amus- 
ing, and  yet  more  contemptible.  What  say  you.  Sir 
Francis? 

Mars.  I  have  not  studied  the  species. 

Lady  J.  Perhaps  you'll  define  it. 

Darn.  I  will — by  a  specimen.     Conceive  a  man  who  de- 


SCENE  lij  DARNLEY  381 

nies  himself  no  pleasure,  and  is  restrained  bv  no  duty. 
Without  honesty,  frank;  without  generosity,  profuse;  a 
lover  of  beauty;  but  as  the  worm  loves  the  rose,  not  to 
delight  in  the  fragrance,  but  to  prey  upon  the  flower. 
Viewing  his  fortune  as  the  food  of  his  vices;  cultivating 
his  talents  as  the  servants  of  deceit;  careless  what  misery 
he  occasions  so  that  his  vanity  is  pleased;  and  undoing  the 
happiness  of  a  life,  for  the  diversion  of  an  hour.  Such  a 
man,  though  the  world  may  call  him  warm-hearted  and  lav- 
ish, though  he  seem  to  the  shallow  too  wild  and  extravagant 
to  be  selfish — such  a  man  is  the  deadliest  and  most  loath- 
some egotist;  and  amid  the  ties,  the  charities,  the  affections 
of  this  breathing  world,  his  only  god  is  himself.  Is  not 
that  true,  Sir  Francis  ? 

Lady  J.  Hush,  Cynic!  there  is  no  such  monster. 

Darn.  Pardon  me,  I  know  an  illustration  in  point.  Once 
on  a  time.  Sir  Francis,  I  had  a  friend — who  did  not  repent 
to  have  married  a  wife  younger  than  himself.  In  that  wife 
was  centred  the  charm  of  his  austere  existence,  the  honor 
of  his  spotless  name.  That  wife  had  a  cousin — a  fair-faced 
and  brilliant  gentleman,  who  pressed  the  husband's  hand, 
feasted  at  his  board,  was  familiar  at  his  house,  and  under 
the  guise  of  tlie  relative  aimed  at  the  distinction  of  the 
betrayer.  You  see  there  is  such  a  monster.  Sir  Francis 
recognizes  the  description! 

Lady  J.   What  can  this  mean  ? 

Darn.  I  call  this  man  an  egotist.  For,  had  he  loved,  he 
had  respected  the  honor  and  the  happiness  of  the  woman  in 
whose  ruin  he  sought  but  the  gratification  of  his  own  van- 
ity. One  day  my  friend  entered  the  room  where  the  wife 
and  the  cousin  were  alone.  He  overheard  the  tawdry  sen- 
timent in  which  the  egotist  wrapped  the  insidious  poison 


382                          BULWERS    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  U 

Lady  J.  Henry ! — Henry ! 


Mars,  [haughtily].  Fear  not,  madam.  The  egotist  perhaps 
could  reply  to  a  calumny,  unmask  a  hypocrite,  and  avenge 
an  insult.     Well,  sir,  what  did  your  friend  do? 

Darn.  My  friend,  sir,  made  himself  merry  with  the  con- 
fusion he  excited.  But  then,  seeing  that  the  hour  was  come 
at  last  to  open  the  eyes  of  Innocence  to  the  designs  of  Guilt, 
he  told  some  such  story  as  1  tell  now.  And  having  told  it, 
such  was  his  unconquerable  trust  in  his  wife's  purity  and 
love,  such  his  belief  that,  the  treason  once  revealed,  the 
traitor  was  forever  baffled,  that  he  bowed  triumphantly  to 
the  one  whom  he  did  not  fear,  smiled  confidingly  on  the 
one  whom  he  could  not  doubt,  took  up  his  hat,  and  left 
them.  [Exit.']  [Lauy  Juliet  sinhs  down.,  and  covers  her 
face  'with  her  hands. 

Mars,  [aside].  What!  He  exasperates  the  foe  and  then 
abandons  the  field?  Fool  as  well  as  hypocrite!  [Aloud.] 
Lady  Juliet,  forgive  me  if  action  or  word  of  mine  has  ex- 
posed you  to  suspicions  so  insulting  and  unjust. 

Lady  J.  Suspicion!  of  me? 

Mars.  To  accuse  me  is  to  suspect  you. 

Lady  J.  And  has  my  thoughtless  levity  stung  that  gener- 
ous heart? 

Mars.  Generous?  True!  indifference  is  always  gen- 
erous. 

Lady  J.  Indifference! 

Mars.  It  is  easy  for  a  man  to  be  generous  to  the  faults — if 
such  there  be — of  his  wife,  when  his  own  affections  are  given 
to  another. 

Lady  J.  Calumniator! 

Mars.  Pardon  me — 1  have  said  too  much.  Yet  pity, 
even  more  than  indignation But  no!     Till  you  learn 


SCENE  II]  DARNLEY  383 

the  truth — not  from  me.  .  .  .  Ah,  Juliet,  think  what  you 
will  of  the  accuser  and  the  unaccusing!     Farewell! 

Lady  J.  Yes,  go !  I  never  knew  your  true  character  till 
now.    Shame  on  one  who  can  insinuate  the  slander  which 

Mars.  Hold!     Taunt  me  not  to  your  own  misery. 

Lady  J.  §peak!  that  Darnley's  life  may  belie  you! 

Mars.  Alas! 

Lady  J.  Ah,  you  falter!  it  is  false. 

Mars.  By  Heaven,  1  have  not  uttered  a  syllable  which  I 
do  not  believe  to  be  true;  and  true  the  more,  because  expe- 
rience bids  me  doubt  of  the  mortal  who  affects  to  be  the 
saint.  "What  in  the  frank  is  but  error,  in  the  hypocrite  is 
sin.  If  another  man,  gay  and  young,  hires  a  house  in  the 
suburb,  and  makes  a  fair  lady  its  inhabitant;  if  he  maintains 
the  establishment,  defrays  the  expenses,  and  visits  the  lady 
daily — why,  it  is  but  a  venial  gallantry  as  the  world  goes. 
But  if  this  be  done  by  a  formal  moralist  who  preaches  to 
others,  and  gives  his  life,  as  you  say,  for  an  example,  why, 
— let  us  hope  that  it  is  only  charity! 

Lady  J.  And  you  dare  to  charge  Mr.  Darnley  with 

Mars.  With  what  I  have  said  and  no  more.  You  have 
wrung  it  from  me. 

Lady  J.  Prove  your  accusation. 

Mars.  I  have  not  the  right.  But  this  address  may  enable 
those  who  have  it,  to  convict  the  egotist  or  unmask  the  dis- 
sembler. \_Exit. 

Lady  J.  [ctfter  a  pause].  Where  am  I?  Alone? — alone! 
O  Heaven,  I  never  knew  till  now  how  I  loved  him!  * 

'  The  conclusion  of  this  scene  is  allered  in  the  acting  version. 


384  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  hi 


ACT   III.— SCEI^E   1/ 

A  room  in  a  Villa  in  St.  John'' s  Wood. 

The  Lady  of  the  Villa.  How  wearily  creep  the  hours !  How 
desolate  seems  the  present,  and  yet,  what  happier  moments 
can  I  hope  for  in  the  future  ?  [Sees  a  guitar  lying  on  the 
table.']  And  in  these  strings  sleeps  the  voice  of  the  past! 
The  past,  when  all  nature  seemed  to  have  no  sound  but 
music,  and  I  heard  his  whisper  in  every  murmur  of  the  air 
[strikes  a  few  chords'].  My  only  solace.  For,  when  I  sing 
the  words  he  loved,  I  feel  as  though  my  voice  could  reach 
him  from  afar. 

SONG. 

0,  wouldst  thou  from  tlie  blighting  wind 

Protect  life's  early  flowers. 
And,  like  the  dial,  only  count 

The  time  by  sunny  hours? 

Love  not!  love  not! 

And  wouldst  thou  keep  from  youth  to  age 

Some  trace  of  childhood's  bloom, 
Thro'  cheerful  days  and  carelesa  nights, 

That  sigh  not  for  the  tomb? 

Love  not!  love  not! 

When  this  sad  heart  shall  rest  at  last 

Beneath  the  funeral  shade, 
Upon  the  nameless  headstone  write, 

To  warn  some  happier  maid, 

"Love  not!  love  not!" 


^  Omitted  in  the  acting  version. 


SCENE  1]  DARNLEY  385 

Enter  Maid  Servant. 

Servant.  These  books,  and  this  letter,  from  Mr.  Darnley. 

[Exit. 

The  Lady  [in  a  tone  of  disappointment].  He  will  not  come 
to-day!  [reads  the  letter] — "I  regret  extremely  that  urgent 
business  may  prevent  my  seeing  you  for  a  few  days.  Mean- 
while, take  comfort  and  hope  for  the  best.  As  soon  as  the 
affairs  that  now  engross  me  will  permit,  be  assured  that  I 
will  devote  every  energy  to  secure  your  happiness,  and 
repair  your  wrongs." — Generous  Darnley!  In  you  rests, 
indeed,  all  that  can  take  the  name  of  hope!  Books — they 
have  lost  their  charm!  My  own  sad  thoughts  start  up  from 
every  page.  [Kriock  at  the  door.]  A  visitor  to  me! — is  it 
possible?     Who  can  have  discovered 

E7iter  Lady  Juliet,  veiled. 

Lady  J.  [aside].  So  young!  and  with  that  look  of  inno- 
cence!    [Aloud.]  Madam,  forgive  this  intrusion. 

The  Lady.  I  fear  there  is  some  mistake. 

Lady  J.  And  I  hope  it.  [Jsic/e.]  What  can  I  say?  I 
have  come  here  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  and  now  I  am 
more  confused  than  herself.  [Aloud^  Madam,  a  friend  of 
mine — a — I  cannot  proceed! 

The  Lady.  Her  voice  falters.  Tears!  What  new  misery 
does  she  come  to  announce  to  me  ? 

Lady  J.  Away  with  weakness !  At  once,  madam — are  you 
acquainted  with  Mr.  Darnley? 

The   Lady    [starting].     Mr.    Darnley?      You    terrify   me! 

What  has  happened  to  Mr.  Darnley?     Speak! 

Lady  J.  [ironically].  Compose  yourself.     He  is  well. 
Bulwer,  Vol.  XXX  *Q 


886  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  in 

Tlie  Lady.  Strange!  This  tone — these  looks — this  dis- 
order—     Whom  have  I  the  honor  to  receive? 

Lady  J.  One  who  has  forgotten  herself  to  come  hither. 
One  who  knows  the  secret  of  your  shame. 

The  Lady.  Oh,  spare  me!  spare  me  J 

Lady  J.  Poor  child!  not  yet  reconciled  to  dishonor. 

The  Lady.  If  you  know  my  secret,  you  know  also  how 
I  was  misled — ^how  deceived.  But  no!  I  will  not  accuse 
him.  I  deserved  it  all.  What  right  had  I  to  confide?  I 
who  betrayed  the  confidence  of  another,  I  who  may  yet 
have  on  my  soul  the  weight  of  a  brother's  curse,  the  stain 
of  a  brother's  blood?  Oh,  madam,  I  know  not  who  you  are, 
nor  what  brings  you  hither.  Bat  by  your  womanhood  itself 
I  adjure  you  to  remember  that  this  secret  is  not  mine  alone. 
If  my  brother  learn  my  wrongs  and  discover  the  betrayer, 
he  will  avenge  them  with  his  life — or  the  life  of  one  still 
too  dear. 

Lady  J.  Life?  Oh,  fear  not.  Your  secret  is  my  own,  and 
it  shall  not  even  rise  up  in  reproach  to  him  who  has  wronged 
me,  not  less  than  you. 

The  Lady.   Wronged  you?     You  know  him?     You 

Lady  J.  [haughtily].  Enough,  madam.  My  wrongs  are 
not  as  yours,  for  mine  have  no  remorse. 

The  Lady  [covering  her  face  loith  her  hands].    Ah! 

Lady  J.  [walking  to  and  fro].  No,  1  will  not  parade  my 
injuries.  1  will  not  bring  the  world's  obloquy  on  my 
child's  father.  And  his  life?  O  Heaven!  should  I  risk 
his  life  because,  like  Man,  he  has  looked  on  Woman  as 
his  toy?  Ah!  she  hides  her  face — the  face  that  has  allured 
from  me  a  heart — oh,  torture!  torture!  [Coming  to  the  table 
and  seeing  the  letter.]  His  hand!  [reads] — "Be  assured  that 
I  will  devote  every  energy  to  secure  your  happiness,  and 


SCENE  I]  DARNLEY  387 

repair  your  wrongs."  Woman,  whom  on  earth  hast  thou 
left  to  me  ?  The  sinner  has  her  comforter,  the  abandoned 
one  has  none! 

The  Lady.  You?  How  have  1  injured  you?  How  pro- 
voked the  reproaches  of  a  stranger? 

Lady  J.  How?  Know  that  I  am — No,  I  may  not  lower 
my  name  by  breathing  it  in  these  walls. 

The  Lady.  Speak  to  me!  speak!  I  am  more  sinned 
against  than  sinning.  Go  not  till  you  have  lifted  from  my 
heart  the  terror  that  your  words  have  left  there.  Oh,  turn 
not  from  me  in  such  disdain! 

Lady  J.  I  turn  that  I  may  not  see  your  face:  I  turn  that 
I  may  not  insult  the  fallen:  I  turn  that  I  may  leave  to  one 
who  has  robbed  me  of  my  all — compassion  and  forgiveness! 

[Exit. 

The  Lady.  Forgiveness?  A  light  breaks  on  me.  How 
my  shame  blinded  me  before!  Another  of  his  victims — 
another  whom  perhaps  he  owns  as  wife.     Stay!  stay! 

As  she  goes  to  the  door^  enter  Servant. 

Servant.  What  has  happened,  ma'am?  This  strange 
lady 

The  Lady.   Stay  me  not!   I  must  see  her  again 

Servant.   Alas,  ma'am,  she  is  gone;  you  are  ill — you  faint! 

Tlie  Lady.  Give  me  your  arm.  Jane,  you  remember  me 
in  my  merry  childhood? 

Serva7it.  I  placed  you  in  your  cradle. 

The  Lady.  And  saw  my  mother  watch  beside  me? 

Servant.  Dear  heart,  yes 

The  Lady.  1  have  no  mother  now — and  yet  I  am  more 
defenceless.  Well,  well.  Innocence  sleeps  not  so  soundly 
in  the  cradle,  as  Sorrow  in  the  Gravel  [Exeunt. 


388  BULWERS    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  hi 


SCENE  IL 

The  Library  in  Darnley's  House. 
« 
Enter  Mainwaring  fanning  himself  ivitli  his  hat. 

Main.  Phew!  phew!  The  run  on  Darnley's  house  is  at 
fever  heat.  Well,  I've  secretly  taken  all  I  have  in  the 
world  to  the  head  clerk.  If  Darnley's  ruined,  I'm  ruined, 
and  that's  a  great  comfort.  So  I  ought  to  be!  I  owe  all  to 
him — all  that  I  scraped  and  saved  for  my  little  sister — who 
I  hope  is  now  starving!  If  she  were,  I  would  not  give  her 
a  farthing,  not  a  loaf,  not  a  crumb.  \_Pauses  and  seats 
himself. ^^  Poor  thing!  I'd  give  this  right  hand  to  hear  her 
gay  voice  singing  on  the  stairs.  She  never  sang  when  she'd 
done  anything  to  vex  me.  Confound  these  fine  chairs! 
There's  no  sitting  in  comfort  in  this  house.  And  that 
villanous  Lady  Juliet,  out  gadding  as  usual,  while  her 
husband  struggles  against  ruin  and  despair.  [Takes  out 
a  cigar  case  and  lights  a  cigar.']  Oho!  by  the  way,  this 
would  horrify  her  dainty  ladyship.  She  swallows  the  in- 
cense of  a  lover,  and  swoons  at  the  perfume  of  a  cigar. 

Enter  Miss  Placid,  speaking  to  a  Servant. 

Miss  P.  If  Mr.  Fyshe  calls,  show  him  in  here.  That  is, 
don't  announce  him — say  I  expect  him  in  the  library. 
Aha!  I  will  see  now  in  good  earnest  if  I  cannot  shock  him 
into  resigning  my  alliance,  and  so  sparing  me  the  forfeit. 


SCENE  II]  DARNLEY  389 

I  failed  as  a  fool,  perhaps  I  may  succeed  as  a  vixen.  Some- 
body smoking !     Ola,  dear  me,  Mr.  Mainwaring ! 

Main.  Beg  pardon.  Darnley  allows  it  in  the  library. 
A  good  cigar  is  as  great  a  comfort  to  a  man  as  a  good  cry 
to  a  woman. 

Miss  P.  To  be  sure.  Never  mind  me.  I  like  it.  [Aside.'] 
How  astonished  he  looks!  I'll  just  practice  on  Mainwaring 
the  part  intended  for  Fysbe.  [Aloud.']  Bless  you,  when 
I  lived  with  my  poor  uncle  in  Leicestershire,  I've  smoked 
a  cigar  myself,  while  riding  to  cover. 

Main.  Kiding  to  cover! 

Miss  P.  Don't  you  know  my  celebrity  at  Melton?  Did 
you  never  hear  of  my  great  day  at  Langley  Broom  ? 

Main.  My  poor  dear  young  friend,  let  me  feel  your  pulse, 
will  you  ? 

Miss  P.  No,  it  always  gallops  a  little  when  I  think  of  that 
great  day  at  Langley  Broom.  [Knock  at  the  door.  Aside.] 
There  he  is!     Now  for  it.     [AZowc?.]  That  tf;a5  a  day! 

"A  southerly  wind  and  a  cloudy  sky 
Proclaim  it  a  hunting  morning!" — 

Fifteen  miles  to  cover.  Uncle  rather  gouty,  so  we  went 
in  a  chaise  and  four,  and  sent  on  the  horses.  Mounted  at 
Crutch  Hollow.  The  field  quite  on  fire  with  expectation 
and  scarlet.  Here  the  Duke — his  brows  knit — hounds 
don't  find.  There — just  where  you  stand— Count  Scamper 
[enter  Fyshe] — and  there  Handsome  Tom  [pointing  toward 
Fyshe  without  seeming  to  see  him] — Suddenly,  yap,  yap, 
yap  I  Hounds  find.  Horses  snort.  Freshmen  look  ner- 
vous. Out  slips  the  fox — there,  just  by  the  fireplace — Yeo, 
yeo,  yoicks!  Tallyho!  over  the  stone  wall,  up  the  hill,  on 
through  the  wood,  Handsome  Tom  leads  the  way — stops 
at  the  fence  and  goes  plump  into  the  ditch  on  the  other 


390  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  in 

side.  "Lie  still  for  your  life!"  and  over  I  go  upon  Brown 
Bess — fence,  ditch,  Tom,  and  all!  Fox  takes  to  the  mill — 
Hounds  at  fault — all  at  a  standstill.  "Stole  away!"  cries 
the  Duke.  "Yoicks!  yoicks!"  cries  the  Huntsman,  "there 
he  sneaks  the  other  side  of  the  mill-stream.  Harkaway! 
Harkaway!" — Into  the  stream — dash,  dash,  splash,  splash! 
Safe  on  the  bank — halt  a  moment  to  breathe — drip,  drip, 
pant,  pant!  To  it  again!  Count  Scamper  and  I,  neck  and 
neck.  Yap,  yap,  helter-skelter — hurry-scurry!  Here  we 
are,  in  at  the  death!  "Mettlesome  girl!"  cries  the  Duke. 
Oh,  what  a  day!     Let  me  light  a  cigar. 

[^Lights  a  cigar ^  and  throius  herself  on  the  sofa  upon  tvhich 
Mr.  Fyshe  has  sunk  in  speechless  consternation. 

Fyshe.  Mad  as  Bedlam!  Lady  Juliet's  nasty  little  dog 
has  certainly  bit  her. 

Ji/55  P.  Oh,  Mr.  Fyshe,  Mr.  Fyshe,  I'm  perfectly 
shocked. 

Fyshe.  So  am  I.     [To  Mainwaring.]  What's  all  this? 

Main.  How  should  I  know  ?  Do  you  take  me  for  a  key 
to  the  Family  Eiddle  Book  ? 

Miss  P.  Ah,  Mr.  Fyshe,  I  hope  I've  not  lost  your  good 
opinion. 

Main.  Oh,  she  wants  his  good  opinion,  does  she? — Hark 
ye,  sir.  Marry  her  and  be  miserable.  You  were  born  to 
be  henpecked.  [Eo:it. 

Fyshe.  Eeally,  Miss  Placid,  I  never  knew  that  your  spirits 
were  so  remarkably  the  reverse  of  low. 

Miss  P.  Why,  it's  useless  to  continue  the  disguise.  You 
see,  my  guardian  has  so  often  lectured  me  for  being  a  little 
too  vehement,  and  said,  "Mr.  Fyshe  is  a  very  polite,  sen- 
sible man,  and  likes  young  ladies  to  behave  pretty  and 
proper,"  that — ha!    ha!    so  I  took  you  in,  did  I? 


SCENE  II 


DARNLEY  391 


Fyshe.   Took  me  in ! 

Miss  P.  Ob,  come  now,  I  dare  sa}^  you've  more  fun  in 
you  than  one  would  suppose  by  your  looks?  Own  that 
you  are  a  little  wild  now  and  then.  I  sha'n't  like  you 
the  less.  And  since  we  must  pull  together,  we'll  see 
which  can  go  fastest. 

Fyshe.  Pull  together?  go  fastest? 

Miss  P.  By  the  bye,  there's  no  fun  like  a  tandem.  Do 
you  handle  the  ribbons? 

Fyshe.  Great  heavens!   all  the  slang  of  a  groom! 

Miss  P.  Oh,  you've  got  the  will  [snatching  it\.  Ah, 
I  see.  Here  is  the  clause.  Quite  true.  I  forfeit  half 
unless  you  refuse  me.  When  shall  it  be?  Next  week? 
The  sooner  the  better.  I  want  to  be  my  own  mistress,  and 
have  it  all  my  own  way. 

Fyshe.  Really,  Miss  Placid,  you  must  permit  me  to  ob- 
serve that  hunting  and  driving  and  smoking  cigars — [asicW] 
I  dare  say  she  drinks  too — [ciloud]  are  qualifications  I  was 
scarcely  prepared  to  expect  in  the  female  companion  of  an 
elegant  retirement. 

Miss  P.  Oh,  I  dare  say  I  shall  surprise  you  a  great  deal 
more   when   we're  married. 

Fyshe  [aside'].  I  feel  uncommonly  nervous.  I  wish 
she'd  refuse  me. — As  to  that,  ma'am,  the  authority  of  a 
husband 

Miss  P.  Is  what  I  never  shall  suffer. 

Fyshe  [aside].  What  a  virago!  Let  me  look  at  the  will. 
Ah!  £30,000  in  the  three  per  cents — I  shall  be  wretched 
for  life!— but,  £80,000!  I  shall  hang  myself  at  my  bed- 
post—but £30,000!— If  it  were  a  farthing  less— Well,  Miss 
Placid,  I  suppose  we  must  name  the  day. 

Miss  P.   [aside].  I  have  failed,  then!     Poor  Mainwaring! 


392  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  ill 

To  lose  half  the  fortune  I  would  bring  him!     It  must  be 
— [Aloud.']     No,  Mr.  Fyshe,  I  fear    I  must  be  content   to 

sacrifice 

Fyshe.  Go  on!  go  on! — [Aside].  She  refuses  me,  and 
pays  the  forfeit!  £15,000  and  no  wife!  Gro  on,  sweet 
Amelia ! 

Enteir  Lady  Juliet  in  great  agitation. 

Lady  J.   [falls  on  Amelia'' s  neck].  Oh!  my  friend — I — I — 

[  Weeps. 

Miss  P.  Heavens!  what  has  happened?  Compose  your- 
self! Sir,  you  see  Lady  Juliet  is  ill.  I  wish  you  good- 
morning. 

Fyshe.  Yes,  she  seems  very  ill.  Still,  as  you  were 
saying [Lady  Juliet  goes  to  the  table  and  writes. 

Miss  P.  [calling  to  the  servant].  Mr.  Fyshe's  carriage. 
Sir,  if  you  don't  go  this  moment,   I'll 

Fyshe.  Yes,  you'll 

Miss  P.  Accept  you! 

Fyshe.  Miss  Amelia,  your  most  obedient.  [Fxii. 

[Lady  Juliet  seals  her  letter  and  wrings  the  bell. 

Enter  Servant. 

Lady  J.   Mr.  Darnley  is  not  returned? 

Servant.  No,  my  lady.     He  is  still  in  the  City,  and 

Lady  J.  Let  him  have  this  when  he  returns.  No!  send 
it  instantly.     Instantly! 

Servant.  Yes,  my  lady,  I  will  take  it  myself. 

Lady  J.  Do  so.  [Exit  Servant. 

Miss  P.  You  alarm  me.  What  letter  is  this?  What  have 
you  written? 


SCENE  III]  DARNLEY  S93 

Lady  J.  What  have  I  written?  My  intention  to  part 
from  Mr.  Darnley  at  once  and  forever! 

\_Exit  through  the  folding  doors. 

Miss  P.  Part!  Do  I  hear  aright?  Alas!  that  this  bril- 
liant creature  should  be  the  slave  of  every  impulse.  Hark! 
Sobs?   I  must  go — and— — 

Servant  announces  Marsden,  who  enters. 
Mars.   Pardon  me,  Miss  Placid.     Where  is  Lady  Juliet? 

I  must  see  her — I — Surely  that  is  her  voice! 

[(xoes  to  tJie  door. 

Miss  P.  [arresting  hirti].  No!  no!  you  cannot  see  Lady 
Juliet  now! 

Mars.   And  why? 

Miss  P.  Some  vile  treachery  has  been  at  work  to  distract 
her  mind  and  destroy  her  happiness!     lu  such  an  hour 

Mars.  In  such  an  hour,  frieodship  claims  the  privilege  to 
console.  [Bows  and  exit. 

Miss  P.  Console!  Ah,  with  him  to  console  is  to  betray! 
1  will  not  leave  her  disordered  reason  to  his  arts.  The  grief 
of  woman,  woman  alone  should  soothe. 

[Exit  after  Sir  Francis.' 


SCENE   III. 

Barnley's  Counting  House. 

Enter  Darnley  followed  hy  Parsons. 
Darn.  And  the  run  strengthens,  eh  ? 

Par.  Sir,  the  panic  swells  every  moment;  the  vast  sum  in 
our  hands  last  Monday  is  nearly  drained. 

'  The  conclusion  of  this  scene  is  altered  in  the  Acting  Version. 


394  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  hi 

Darn,  [holding  up  his  ivatch].  Is  my  watch  right? 

Par.  Sir,  yes — certainly. 

Barn.  Then  all  is  safe.  In  less  tlian  an  hour  the  day's 
demand  will  be  over — [Enter  Mainwaring] — And  to- 
morrow arrive  my  supplies  from  Hamburg. 

Par.  And  the  day  after 

Darn.  And  the  day  after — those  shares  on  which  we 
perilled  so  much  shall  take  such  a  rise  in  the  market  that 
we  could  pave  Lombard  Street  with  gold;  and  the  next 
day,  if  the  wind  hold,  "The  Adventurer"  will  be  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Thames;  and  the  next  day,  return  my  agents 
from  Eotterdam  and  Frankfort;  and  the  next  day,  the  crowd 
around  my  column  at  the  Exchange  shall  know  that  the 
House  of  Darnley,  recovered  from  every  shock,  complete 
the  mightiest  loan  merchant  ever  lent  to  monarch.  Go 
back.     We  are  safe!  [Exit  Parsons. 

Main.  But  if  these  resources  fail  you?  If  the  Hamburg 
supplies  are  delayed?  If  the  shares  continue  to  fall  instead 
of  rising?     If 

Barn.  Well  the  Science  of  Life  is  the  calculation  of  Ifs. 
While  you  speak,  I  am  counting  what  else  to  depend  on. 
Humph!  my  shares  in  the  Australian  Bank  can  be  sold — 
next  week  come  my  remittances  from  Guiana  and  Barba- 
does — [looking  over  his  hooJcs']. 

Main.  Your  coolness  fevers  me.  Your  gigantic  specula- 
tions have  scattered  all  your  resources;  and,  should  the 
succor  that  depends  upon  a  thousand  accidents  not  come 
to  the  very  hour,  you  are  undone! 

Barn.  Undone?  we  are  never  undone  while  the  mind  is 
firm  and  the  name  is  spotless.  The  spider  reweaves  her 
web:  the  brave  man  rebuilds  his  fortunes. 

Main.  Stoic,  be  human! 


SCENE  m]  DARNLEY  395 

Darn.  I  am  human.  Where  Humanity  is  weakest — in 
the  affections!  If  I  am  calm  in  the  midst  of  the  storm, 
it  is  because  I  see  at  last  the  sunshine  breaking  upon  my 
home.  Yesterday  I  found  the  courage  to  warn  Juliet,  and 
in  Marsden's  presence.  I  watched  her  while  I  warned,  and 
there  was  innocence  on  her  cheeks.  Henceforth  the  danger 
is  banished  from  my  house,  the  jealous  agony  from  my 
heart.  I  have  saved  the  wealth  that  brings  the  sweetest 
return,  and  all  meaner  treasure  seems  to  have  lost  the  value 
it  had  before.  Stoic?  It  is  onh^  fortune  that  menaces 
me,  and  I  am  a  Stoic  now. 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant  [giving  letter'].  From  my  lady,  sir. 

Darn.  From  Juliet!  Ah,  I  was  detained  so  late  last 
niglit,  and  have  not  seen  her  since  I  left  her  with  the  man 
I  no  longer  fear.  Uneasy  at  my  absence  or  alarmed  at  these 
reports — Wait  witl-out.  [Exit  Servant.]  [Beads] — "Sir" — 
Sirl — "I  have  long  been  convinced  of  the  utter  dissimilarity 
in  our  habits  and  our  tastes.  The  affront  you  passed  on  me 
yesterday,  in  implying  a  doubt  which,  however  disguised, 
could  only  reflect  upon  myself" — upon  her! — "has  decided 
me  to  adopt  a  resolution" — I  will  read  no  more.  I  am  not 
in  my  senses!  I  have  not  slept  for  many  nights,  my  eyes 
deceive  me.  Did  the  man  say  this  was  from  Lady  Juliet 
Darnley  ? 

Alain.   From  Lady  Juliet — Yes. 

Darn.  I  will  read  on — "a  resolution  which" — The  air  is 
close — heavy — [Main waring  opens  the  loindovS] — Thank 
you!  It  revives  me — "to  ask  your  consent  to  an  imme- 
diate separation.  The  details  I  will  leave  to  you  and  to 
my  father." — It  is  not  her  writing.  Ha,  ha!  a  forgery! 
Read — read  I 


396  BULWER'S   DRAMATIC   WORKS  [act  hi 

Maiii.  [I'eads].  Oli,  Darnley,  be  a  Stoic  now! 

Darn.  I  tell  you  it  is  a  forgery.  Three  months  since, 
a  poor  wretch  forged  my  signature  for  a  handful  of  dross — 
and  I  would  not  prosecute.  But  oh,  what  punishment  stern 
enough  for  one  who  has  thus  lyingly — lyingly,  look  you! 
— counterfeited  the  hand  of  lier,  who — A  forgery!  a  vile 
forgery ! 

Main.  Not  a  forgery;  but  still,  perhaps,  a  delusion. 
Some  one  has  maddened  lier  to  this — Ha!  [Calls  the  Ser- 
vant.] Did  your  lady  go  out  this  morning? 

Servant.  Yes,  sir. 

Main.  Where? 

Servant.  1  don't  know,  sir. 

Main.  Was  no  one  with  her  when  you  left? 

Servant.  Sir  Francis  Marsden  just  called  as  I  came  away. 
Any  answer,  sir? 

Darn,  [calmly].  Say  I  shall  be  detained  from  home  till 
to-morrow  afternoon,  when  I  will  see  Lady  Juliet.  [Exit 
Servant.]  Marsden — Marsden — with  her!  An  immediate 
separation! — it  is  well — well 

Enter  Parsons. 

Par.  Oh,  sir!  Such  tidings!  The  house  at  Hamburg, 
Meyer  and  Vandervelt,  on  which  you  relied  for  to-morrow, 
has  failed. 

Darn.  Failed?     No  matter.     It  will  not  affect  me. 

Par.  [aside\.   What  a  man!     Nothing  daunts  him.     [Exit. 

Main.  For  your  child's  sake,  take  courage!  Tear  this 
woman  from  your  heart! 

Darn.  I  do — I  do.  I  am  not  base  enough  to  mourn  a 
wanton 

Main.  Those  bills  of  Marsden's,  that  you  bade  me  buy 


SCENE  ni]  DARNLEY  397 

up  long  since, — shall  I  not  sell  them?  They  may  bring 
something:  you  will  want  all. 

Darn.  Sell  them?  not  for  millions!  I  will  smite  him  with 
my  wand — my  sceptre — my  gold — ere  it  leaves  my  grasp. 
Hash!  Meyer  and  Yandervelt  fail  me.  How  much,  did  I 
count  on?  Reach  me  that  book.  I  see.  And  in  her  love 
I  was  so  rich!  Yes,  as  you  say,  heavy  bills  will  be  due  to- 
morrow. Where  is  the  list?  Pshaw!  we  can  meet  these. 
I  must  raise  money  on  Elgrove.  You  know  the  old  willows 
by  the  riverside — our  favorite  walk  in  the  first  happy 
summers.  She  loved  me  then,  and  yet  I  was  not  then  so 
rich.  Foolish  thoughts  these,  and  at  such  a  time.  True, 
true ! 

Main.   Rouse  yourself.     But  just  now  you  defied  fortune. 

Darn.  And  do  still— [r/yir/5.  Enter  Parsons].  Send  for 
Mr.  Simmonds  the  Bill-broker,  privately. 

Par.  Yes,  sir.  I  beg  pardon,  but  here  is  a  draft  for 
£3,000  signed  by  Lady  Juliet — to  Mr.  Fringe  for  decora- 
tions for  Elgrove.  Really,  we  need  not  pay  this.  It  is  not 
your  signature.     We  cannot  spare  this  sum. 

Darn.  [taJdng  the  check].  This  is  her  hand  [comparing  it 
luith  the  letter].  Here,  Mainwaring,  here.  These  characters 
differ,  eh? 

Main.  For  Heaven's  sake 

Darn.  No!  no!  no!  it  is  not  a  forgery.  You  know  Lady 
Juliet  had  my  leave  to  draw  upon  the  house.  Pay  the 
check. 

Par.   But,  indeed,  sir 

Daryi.  Begone!  [^a;^7  Parsons.]  You  see  I  denied  her 
nothing. 

Main.  Hark  you,  Darnley.  To-day  you  owe  a  duty  to 
your  clients,   your  name,   your  child,   and  your  country's 


398  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  hi 

commerce.  Think  of  these  alone.  Any  day  will  suffice  to 
expel  the  faithless  wife  from  the  home  to  which  she  brings 
but  ruin  and  disgrace.  Go  over  these  accounts.  Prepare 
for  the  morrow.  If  you  lose  your  self-possession  you  will 
be  a  bankrupt,  your  child  a  beggar. 

Barn,  [writing].  You  are  right.  You  shall  not  blush  for 
your  friend.  I  have  all  the  evening  left — I  will  gather  up 
all  my  resources.  [Rings.  Enter  Parsons.]  This  letter 
to  Messrs.  Riclimore.  This  to  Sir  John  Gould.  The  mes- 
senger will  wait  for  answers.  Fetch  me  the  iron  box  with 
the  title  deeds  of  Elgrove.  [Exit  Parsons.]  That  paper 
yonder — [Mainwaring  gives  it  to  hini].  These  sums  are 
complicated.  There,  see  my  head  is  clear — I  can  still  com- 
pute in  a  glance  what  would  be  a  puzzle  for  Algebra. 
Why,  to-morrow  shall  find  me  ready  for  all.  Next  week 
wealth  shall  roll  back  like  an  ocean.  Next  week — and 
home  —  Juliet  —  that  smile  —  that  voice!  Oh,  God! — my 
heart  is  broken! 


SCENE  I]  DARNLEY  399 


ACT   lY.— SCENE  I.» 
A  Draicing-room  in  Darnley's  House.    . 

Lady  J.  No,  I  will  not  deign  to  proclaim  the  cause  of 
my  resolution.  I  will  not  be  that  pitiable  object,  a  jealous 
and  abandoned  wife.  I  will  part  as  becomes  my  dignity, 
my  innocence,  and  my  wrongs,  without  the  weakness  of 
reproach.     His  footstep!     I  will  be  firm. 

Enter  Darnley. 

Darn.  She  cannot  conceal  her  emotion.  Even  yet  it  may 
not  be  too  late.     Juliet! 

Lady  J.    Mr.  Darnley. 

Darn.  "Mr.  Darnley?"' — It  is  too  late.  Lady  Juliet 
Darnley,   is  this  your  writing? 

Lady  J.    Certainly. 

Darn.  And  you  persist  in  the  same  desire?  You  would 
forsake  your  husband's  roof? 

Lady  J.  Phrase  it  as  you  will.  I  desire  your  consent 
to  part. 

Darn.   Madam,  you  have  it. 

Lady  J.  How  calmly  he  consents  1 — I  am  glad  my  reasons 
have  convinced  you. 

Darn.  Reasons?    They  are  not  found  in  this  letter.    They 

'  In  the  acting  version  this  scene  is,  with  obvious  propriety,  transferred  to 
the  liouse  of  Lord  Fitzhollow. 


400  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iv 

are  written,  where  I  have  no  longer  power  to  search,  in 
the  heart  which  has  abjured  its  vows.  "Uncongenial 
habits" — Ah,  that  was  not  the  phrase  upon  your  lips 
when, — but  no  matter!  "The  affront  of  a  doubt,"  when 
another  man  might  have.  .  .  Bat  let  it  pass!  I  seek  no 
explanation;  and  I  suffer  without  a  murmur — the  penalty 
of  a  blind  trust  and  a  weak  indulgence. 

Lady  J.  [ironically].  May  the  consciousness  of  your  de- 
fects console  you  for  mine.     Indulgence,  ha!    ha! 

Darn.  By  Heaven,  this  levity!  But  no,  you  shall  not 
make  me  forget — all  that  is  left  me  in  misfortune — my  in- 
dignation and  my  pride.  Indulgence — what!  was  the  word 
misapplied?  I  might  have  expected  to  find,  even  in  so 
liigh-born  and  fair  a  partner,  a  companion,  a  friend,  the 
helpmate  and  guardian  of  a  home.  Can  you  deny  that  I 
have  found  them  not?  But,  when  did  I  repine  while  you 
were  happy?  If,  wearied  and  exhausted,  I  returned  from 
the  cares  and  anxieties  of  the  day  to  a  solitary  hearth, 
still  it  soothed  me  to  think  that  these,  my  "uncongenial 
habits,"  had  saddened  not  your  joyous  youth.  You  were 
shining  elsewhere — delighting  others.  In  your  gayety  I 
was  gay;  in  your  youth  I  was  young  again. 

Lady  J.  Darnley!  Henry!  [Aside.]  Ah,  shall  I  tell 
him    all ! 

Darn.  Oh!  let  man  beware  of  marriage  until  he  thor- 
oughly know  the  mind  of  her  on  whom  his  future  must 
depend.  Woe  to  him,  agony  and  woe,  when  the  wife  feels 
no  sympathy  with  the  toil,  when  she  soothes  not  in  the 
struggle,  when  her  heart  is  far  from  that  world  within,  to 
which  her  breath  gives  the  life,  and  her  presence  is  the 
sun!  How  many  men  in  humbler  life  have  fled,  from  a 
cheerless  hearth,   to  the   haunts  of  guilt!      How  many  in 


SCENE  I]  DARNLEY  -101 

the  convict's  exile,  in  the  felon's  cell,  might  have  shunned 
the  fall — if  woman  (whom  Heaven  meant  for  our  better 
angel)  had  allured  their  step  from  the  first  paths  to  hell 
by  making  a  paradise  of  home!  But  by  the  poor  the  lioly 
houseliold  ties  are  at  least  not  scorned  and  trifled  with,  as 
by  those  among  whom  you  were  reared.  They  at  least  do 
not  deem  it  a  mean  ambition  that  contents  itself  with  the 
duties  of  wife  and  mother.  Look  round  the  gay  world  you 
live  in,  and  when  you  see  the  faithless  husband  wasting 
health,  fortune,  bonor,  in  unseemly  vices — behold  too  often 
the  cause  of  all  in  the  cold  eyes  and  barren  heart  of  the 
fashionable  wife. 

Lady  J.  [aside].  He  seeks  to  excuse  himself!  [Aloud]. 
And  the  fashionable  wife  is  alone  to  blame  if  the  husband 
transfer  his  affections  to  some  tenderer  object? 

Darn.  At  least  she  must  share  the  blame. 

Lady  J.  Enough,  Mr.  Darnley.  You  will  now  be  released 
from  one  whom  you  judge  so  severely — who — who — [bursts 
into  tears]. 

Darn.  Her  heart  softens — she  weeps!  Juliet,  Juliet,  re- 
tract those  fatal  words. 

Tjady  J.  Eetract?  Never!  It  was  a  moment's  weakness, 
and  is  past.  [Rings  the  hell.  Enter  Servant.]  Go  to  my 
lord  and  beg  him  to  come  here  instantly.  Now,  sir,  we 
shall  both  be  happy. 

Darn.  Happy!  May  you  be  so,  not  in  revel  and  in  pomp, 
in  stately  equipage,  in  applauded  beauty — least  of  all  in 
hollow  flattery  from  the  lips  of  guilt.  But  happy  in  a  good 
name,  in  a  calm  conscience,  in  prayers  that  leave  no  repen- 
tance. Oh!  ere  warning  be  all  in  vain,  beware,  Juliet, 
beware!  You  forsake  me,  but  I  leave  your  daughter  in 
my  place:  and  if  ever  your  heart  trembles  before  tempta- 


402  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iv 

tion,  go  to  your  child — look  into  its  pure  eyes — listen   to 
its  innocent  voice — and  Ipt  the  mother  save  the  wife! 

[Exit. 
Jjady  J.  Beware!  save!     Vain  dissimulation!     He  Icnows 
himself   faithless,    and    counterfeits    distrust    of    me.     Oh, 
Heaven  pity  me!     I   am  desolate  and   wretched! 

Enter  Marsden   ['puttinc/  aside  a  Servant  who  cmi- 
nounces  him]. 

Mars.  At  last  I  see  you,  and  alone.  I  had  no  oppor- 
tunity 3^esterday,  while  your  friend  was  by,  to  tell  you  how 
truly  1  share  your  sorrows,  how  deeply  1  feel  your  wrongs. 
My  cousin,  my  dear  cousin  [attempts  to  take  her  hand]. 

Lady  J.  Leave  me!  leave  me! 

Mars.  Leave  you? — no!  Ah,  that  I  had  the  privilege 
which  Darnley  has  despised,  in  joy  or  in  grief  to  be  for- 
ever by  your  side! 

Lady  tl.  Forever!  There  is  no  forever  in  man's  thoughts 
when  he  speaks  to  woman!  Betrayed — forsaken — even  re- 
proach denied  me — oh!  why  are  women  so  powerless  to 
avenge? 

Mars.  Powerless?  no!  what  vengeance  like  the  transfer 
of  your  love?  Ah,  need  you  learn  now  that  I  but  live  for 
you?  How  truly,  how  patiently,  how  hopelessly,  till  this 
hour — I  have  sighed  for  the  affection  which  the  ingrate  has 
cast  away ! 

[As  he  kneels,  and  JULIET  loeeps  on,  unheeding  him, 
Darnley,  with  Fanny  in  Ids  arms,  opens  the  door 
— darts  forward,  then  halts,  and  retires. 

Lady  J.  Rise!  rise!     This  is  but  cruelty,  insult 

Mars.  Nay,  in  my  love  behold,  at  least,  the  means  of 
your  revenge.     Listen  to  me! 


SCENE  I]  DARNLEY  403 

Lady  J.  Speak  not  to  me  now !  These  walls  reel  before 
my  eyes.  I  know  not  what  I  say,  or  think,  oi  foel.  Am 
I  listening  to  guilt  or  shame?  [£'7ifer  Mainwaring.  Lady 
Juliet  hastening  to  him.]  Sit  down — here — here — sit  down! 
Remain!  Thank  Heaven  there  is  something  present,  now, 
to  interpose  between  crime  and  madness! 

Mars,  [aside].  Mainwaring!  'Sdeath,  in  the  very  moment 
of  success! 

Main,  [looking  at  them  steadily].  Thank  you.  Yes,  I  am 
very  glad  to  sit  down — and  feel  as  if  I  should  not  get  up  for 
a  twelvemonth. 

Mars.  Indeed,  Mr.  Mainwaring,  I  appeal  to  your  deli- 
cacy. I  have  something  very  important  to  say  to  my  re- 
lation, Lady  Juliet.  Leave  us  but  for  a  few  minutes,  I 
entreat  you. 

Main.  Lady  Juliet,  is  it  your  wish  that  I  should  leave 
you  with  Sir  Francis  Marsden  ? 

Lady  J.  No,  stay,  stay ! 

Main.  Then,  with  your  permission,  Sir  Francis,  I'll  read 
the  newspaper.  Hum!  What  do  you  think  of  affairs  in 
China? 

Mars.  Sir,  this  trifling — • — 

Main.  Trifling!  Nay,  really,  Sir  Henry  Pottinger  seems 
pretty  well  in  earnest. 

Mars,  [to  Lady  Juliet].  Grant  me  one  moment?  Can 
I  not  speak  to  you  elsewhere  ? 

Main.  Ah,  if  I  disturb  you,  you'll  find  Darnley  in  the 
next  room.  Pray,  Sir  Francis,  do  you  know  the  precise 
latitude  of  the  island  of  Hong  Kong? 

Mars.  Zounds!  is  it  always  to  be  my  fate  to  be  made 
ridiculous?  [Whisj)ering.]  Juliet,  remember!  When  we 
meet  again,  I  will  take  your  answer. 


404  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [ACT  IV 

[Lady  Juliet  remains  as  if  insensible,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  space. 

Main,  [watching  them  and  then  turning  to  the  paper'].  Bless 
me!  a  Divorce  case.  God  help  the  false  wife's  abandoned 
children! 

Lady  J.  [starting].  Ah! 

Mars,  [muttering].  Confound  him!  [Exit. 

Main.  From  this  daily  oracle  comes  a  voice  for  every 
conscience.  [Dropping  the  paper  and  seizing  Lady  Juliet's 
hand.]  Your  hand  is  cold.  So  be  it  ever  to  the  clasp  of 
every  man,  save  your  noble  husband's.  Wake  yourself, 
Juliet  Darnley!  Why  are  you  here?  Why  listening  to 
that  soft-tongued  knave,  when  your  post  should  be  by 
Darnley's  side  in  his  hour  of  reverse  and  woe.  Do  you 
not  know  that  he  is  on  the  verge  of  ruin? 

Lady  J.  Euin! 

Main.  Euin — and  you  the  cause.  Had  you  been  con- 
tented to  bless  the  wealth  he  had  acquired,  Darnley  had 
not  been  driven  to  seek  the  distraction  of  absorbing  schemes 
and  feverish  speculations.  To  supply  your  extravagance  no 
enterprise  seemed*  too  rash.  Sudden  reverse — endangered 
credit — the  very  splendor  that  surrounds  you  but  feeding 
the  fears  of  every  claimant — this  is  the  state  in  which  you 
would  desert  your  husband!  And  in  the  hour  when  he 
most  needs  support  and  solace,  his  wife  forsakes  her  hus- 
band, and  listens  to  her  lover! 

Lady  J.  Hold,  sir!  you  presume.  But  no!  your  warmth 
shall  not  offend  me.  I  knew  not,  so  help  me  Heaven,  I 
knew  not  Henry's  misfortunes.  I  thought — I  think  still, 
that  I  have  wrongs,  deep  wrongs.  Let  them  pass.  We  were 
to  part — I  will  not  leave  my  husband  now — no,  not  in  his  care 
and  sorrow — no — not  unless  he  drive  me  from  his  hearth. 


SCENE  I]  DARNLEY  405 

Main.  He  drive  you !  he  who  so  loves 

Lady  J.  Loves?  We  will  not  speak  of  love.  Tell  me 
more  of  his  affairs. 

Main.  The  supplies  counted  on  for  to-day  have  failed; 
the  run  continues.  Could  we  but  get  through  the  next 
twelve  hours  we  may  be  safe.  To-morrow  new  resources 
will  pour  in.  But  to-day!  And  Darnley,  whose  energy 
alone  could  sustain  and  avert  the  danger,  for  the  first  time 
flies  from  the  storm — sinks  beneath  his  fate,  crushed  by  the 
grief  that  you  have  heaped  upon  his  heart.  But  I  waste 
time.  This  is  the  hour  to  seek  friends.  As  if  friends  were 
not  like  mammoths  and  iguanodons — a  species  of  monsters 
that  never  survive  a  deluge.  A  month  ago  a  quarter  of 
a  million  would  so  have  served  the  great  House  of  Darnley 
as  twenty,  nay  ten,  thousand  pounds  would  to-day. 

Lady  J.  How!  Are  you  serious?  Twenty  thousand 
pounds 

Main.   Ay,  or  ten. 

Lady  J.  Joy,  joy,  oh,  joy!  Wait  here,  one  instant! 
Wait [Exit. 

Main.  Certainly,  the  more  I  consider,  the  more  I'm  con- 
vinced that  a  woman  is  a  kind  of  quicksilver.  She  is  here 
and  there,  come  and  gone,  lost  and  found,  vaporizes  at  a 
common  temperature,  and  only  becomes  solid  when  she's 
below  zero.  But,  properly  confined,  and  nailed  up  in  the 
parlor,  she's  a  capital  weather-glass;  for  she  falls  with  every 
cloud,  and  rises  with  every  sunbeam. 

Re-enter  Lady  Juliet. 

Lady  J.  Here,  Mr.  Mainwaring.  These  diamonds  were 
my  mother's.  They  are  mine  to  give,  for  they  made  my 
only  dowry.     These,  too,  were  Henry's  wedding  gift.     Ah, 


406  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC   WORKS  [act  iv 

happy  days!  These  too — these — these,  take  them  all.  They 
will  raise  more  than  you  say  he  requires.  Haste!  quick! 
quick!  But  mind,  one  condition — one  promise — not  a  word 
to  Henry !     Pledge  me  your  honor. 

Main.  Pshaw?     Why? 

Lady  J.  Why  ?  Because  you  know  his  pride.  Because, 
in  our  present  relation  toward  each  other,  he  would  refuse 
them,  and  it  would  be  mean  in  me  to  seem  as  if  I  would 
buy  back  his  love. 

Main.  Well,  for  the  present  you  may  be  right.  I  don't 
scruple  to  accept  the  relief.     It  may  save  him  yet. 

Lady  J.  Save  him?     Fly! 

Main.  But  are  you  sure  you  will  not  repent?  Jewels 
that  belonged  to  your  ancestors;  can  even  money  replace 
Lhem  ? 

Lady  J.  Money,  no!  If  you  would  replace  them,  bring 
me  back  my  husband's  heart.  [Exit. 

Main.  This  would  be  a  very  happy  marriage  if  Darnley 
could  be  ruined  every  day  of  his  life.  I'm  half  afraid  I'm 
beginning  to  fall  in  love  with  her  myself.     Hang  her! 

[Exit. 

SCENE   11. 
The  Library. 

Darnley  and  Fanny. 

Darnley  seated;  his  hands  before  his  eyes.     Fanny 
attempts  to  ivithdraw  them. 

Fan.  Papa!  speak  to  me,  papa! 

Darn.  Child!  child! 

Fan,  Don't  call  me  child.     Nurse  calls  me  "child"  when 


SCENE  iij  DARNLEY  407 

she's  angry.     Call  me  Fanny,  your  own  Fanny,     You  are 
sad.     Stay,  I  will  bring  mamma. 

Darn,  [stai^ting  iq)  and  2^utiing  aside  the  child].  Oh,  the 
happy  hour  when  I  first  taught  these  lips  to  lisp  the 
mother's  name!  iPaitses,  and  opens  his  arms.']  Do  you- 
love  me  ?     Do  you  love  me  ?     Say  you  love  me,  oh,  my  child ! 

Fan.  Fanny  loves  you  with  her  whole  heart,  papa. 

Enter  Servant  announcing  LoRD  FiTZHOLLOW. 

Lord  F.  My  dear  Darnley;  do  you  know  you  alarm  me 
terribly?  Juliet  sends  for  me>  I  come:  and  now  she  is 
in  her  room,  too  ill  to  see  even  me.  You  are  disturbed. 
Can  these  dreadful  reports  be  true? 

Darn.  I  have  much  to  say  to  you.  \_Puts  dozon  the  child, 
who  goes  into  a  corner  of  the  room  and  amuses  herself  with 
building  a  house  of  cards.] 

Lord  F.  I  listen. 

Darn.  Why  did  you  choose  me  for  your  daughter's 
husband? 

Lord  F.  Why?  My  dear  Darnley,  that's  a  strange  ques- 
tion! Though  a  merchant,  you  were  of  noble  family:  you 
were  rising,  already  rich,  and  an  irreproachable  public 
character — of  my  own  politics.  I  knew  you  would  do 
credit   to  me  as  a  connection. 

Darn.  But  did  you  consider  whether  I  should  make  your 
daughter  happy  as  a  husband? 

Lord  F.  Why  not?  Ypur  house  is  admirably  appointed. 
She  has  the  best  box  at  the  opera;  no  one  is  more  thor- 
oughly the  mode.  I  don't  think -there's  a  woman  in  London 
more  to  be  envied  than  Lady  Juliet  Darnley. 

Darn.  It  was  to  my  wealth,  then,  that  you  looked,  when 
you  thought  of  your  daughter's  happiness? 


408  BULWERS    DRAMATIC   WORKS  [act  iv 

Lord  F.  My  dear  Darnley,  we  don't  live  in  Arcadia;  and 
of  course,  as  a  man  of  some  birth  and  station,  I  could  not 
have  consented  to  Juliet's  marriage  with  any  man  who 
could  not  give  her  an  establishment  suitable  to  the  daugh- 
ter of  Lord  Fitzhollow. 

Darn.  I  understand  you.  My  wealth  is  gone.  "With 
it,  my  power  of  conferring  happiness.  Take  back  your 
daughter. 

LorclF.  Sir! 

Darn.  By  her  settlements  an  ample  income  is  secured  to 
Lady  Juliet.  Whatever  may  chance  to  me,  that  income 
I  surrender.  I  took  her  poor.  I  return  her  rich.  Are 
you  contented  ? 

Lord  F.  Mr.  Darnley,  you  speak  bluntly.  But  still,  if 
your  affairs  are  as  you  seem  to  fear,  it  would  be  unpleas- 
ant for  me  to  think  my  daughter  involved  in  misfortunes 
that  might  lower  her  dignity — and  my  own.  In  short,  till 
your  affairs  are  retrieved,  a  separation  would  be  a  very 
proper  proceeding — if  Juliet  can  be  induced  to  consent. 

Darn.  It  is  her  own  wish. 

Lord  F.  Indeed  ?  Ah,  she  was  brought  up  with  a  proper 
sense  of  her  station. 

Darn.  To-morrow  (if  you  will  do  me  the  honor  to  attend), 
my  lawyer  shall  be  prepared  with  the  deed  of  separation. 

Lord  F.  It  is  a  very  sad  business,  and  we  must  make  the 
best  of  it  to  the  world.  You  have  no  fault  to  find  with 
Lady  Juliet? 

Darn.  No  one  is  more  thoroughly  the  mode. 

Lord  F.  Um!  Sarcastic!  Of  course  you  leave  her 
daughter   to   her   care? 

Darn.  No.  An  hour  ago  I  had  intended  that  cruel  sac- 
rifice.    I  have  changed  my  mind.     One  victim  is  enough. 


SCENE  u]  DARNLEY  409 

Lord  F.  But 

Barn.  Oa  this  head,  1  am  immovable. 

Lord  F.  Well,  I  cannot  dictate  to  you;  the  law  is  on 
your  side.  But  for  my  grandchild's  future  prospects,  her 
entrance  into  society,  her  insurance  of  a  suitable  alliance 
in  point  of  fortune, — my  house,  and  the  experience  of  Lady 
Fitzhollow,  present  unequalled  advantages. 

Darn.   What  education  did  you  give  your  daughters? 

Lord  F.  The  very  best.  Bochsa  for  the  harp,  and  Hertz 
for  the  piano.  My  daughters  speak  seven  languages;  and 
are  universally  admitted  to  be  most  highly  accomplished. 

Darn.  And  these  are  the  walls  of  tinsel  which  are  to  for- 
tify the  human  conscience  in  the  hour  of  trial!  Unguided 
the  temper  that  should  bless  a  home,  unstrengthened  the 
principles  that  should  subdue  the  world.  Oh,  yes,  you 
taught  your  daughters  all  that  could  feed  the  vanity,  and 
starve  the  heart;  all  that  could  make  them  turn  from 
the  holy  tranquillity  of  the  household  altar,  to  crave  the 
applause  that  contaminates,  and  the  excitement  that  con- 
sumes! 

Lord  F.  Opinions  on  education  differ.  Still,  I  have  the 
consolation  of  thinking  that  every  one  says  my  daughters 
reflect  great  credit  on  myself. 

Darn.  "Credit  on  yourself!"  How  this  egotism  pervades 
the  world,  and  poisons  the  fountains  of  the  holiest  affec- 
.tions!  Our  children  are  educated,  that  their  accomplish- 
ments may  pander  to  our  vanity;  and  married,  that  their 
alliance  may  gratify  our  pride.  And  we  only  regard  their 
destiny  as  an  investment  that  is  to  yield  an  usurer's 
interest  to  our  prudent  selves. 

Lord  F.    [aside].    I  have  always  observed   that  when  a 

man  becomes  poor  he  loses  a  great  deal  of  his  good  breed - 
Bulwer,  Vol.  XXX  *R 


410  BULWERS    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iv 

ing.  [Aloud.]  Well,  Mr.  Darnle}^  you'll  excuse  me  if  I 
don't  reply  to  your  homilies.  Nothing,  in  my  opinion,  is 
more  mauvnis  ton  than  family  recriminations.  At  two  to- 
morrow, eh?  Au  plaisir f  Oh,  by  the  way,  there  should 
be  another  trustee  to  this  deed  of  separation.  Whom  would 
you  suggest?  Some  quiet,  moral,  sensible,  worthy  man — 
not  over-curious  about  the  affairs  of  other  people. 

Barn.  Why  not  Mr.  Fyshe?  He  is,  openly,  what  you 
all  are  in  disguise. 

Lord  F.    How  d'ye  mean? 

Darn.  A  quiet,  sensible,  moral,  worthy  man — not  over- 
curious  about  other  people's  affairs. 

Lord  F.  Mr.  Fyshe?  I  never  heard  anything  against 
Mr.  Fyshe.     Mr.  Fyshe  let  it  be.  [Exit. 

Fan.  Papa,  come  and  see  what  a  nice  house  I  have  built 
\claj)s  her  hands].      Ah,  it  is  down  now! 

Darn.  Grieve  not.     Thy  father's  house  is  as  frail  as  thine. 

Enter  Mainwaring. 

Main.  Give  me  your  hand,  Darnley!  Huzza!  a  timely 
aid  has  enabled  us  to  pay  off  the  last  demands  of  the  day. 
The  panic  is  subsiding.  The  shares  in  the  great  Gas  Com- 
pany (on  which  you  so  wisely  counted  to  repair  all  losses) 
are  rising.     What!  dumb?     I  say  you  are  saved. 

Darn,  [helping  the  child  with  the  card-house].  It  is  too  late. 
Pretty  one,  see!  we  cannot  build  up  the  house  again. 

Main,  [whispering].  Juliet  retracts — repents.  She  loves 
you! 

Darn.  Hush!  hush! — [Opens  the  door  and  puts  out  the 
child.]  Play  there,  my  Fanny!  [Coming  hack.]  Breathe 
not  the  mother's  name  before  the  sinless  child. 

Main.  Pshaw!     Lady  Juliet  has   her  faults — her  errors. 


SCENE  II]  DARNLEY  411 

But,  remember  her  youth,  her  training,  the  corruption  of 
this  damnable  great  world.     She  shall  ask  your  pardon. 

Darn.  Heaven  can  pardon  all  sins.  There  are  wrongs 
which  man  cannot  forgive. 

Main.  Darnley,  I  have  never  pleaded  for  your  wife  be- 
fore. I  plead  for  her  now.  She  loves  you.  Be  patient! 
This  Marsden 

Darn.  \_fiercely\.  I  saw  him  at  her  feet!  saw  it,  and  was 
patient — [After  a  pause.'\  Yes,  but  a  few  minutes  before,  we 
parted,  my  heart  relented;  I  said  to  myself,  ''My  words 
failed  to  move  her,  she  shall  hear  her  better  angel  speak 
from  her  child's  lips."  I  came  to  place  her  child  in  her 
arms  and  say,  "Blind  one,  behold  thy  guide,  and  let  it  lead 
thee  from  the  abyss!"  I  came,  and  saw — her  lover  at  her 
feet.  I  sprang  forward  in  man's  natural  instinct  of  just 
revenge — and  my  eyes  fell  upon  my  child.  The  mother 
vanished  from  my  soul:  the  child  alone  remained  upon  the 
earth.  Should  the  world  hiss  in  my  daughter's  ear,  "Thy 
mother  was  an  adulteress,  and  the  blood  of  her  paramour 
is  on  thy  father's  hands!"  And  so, — darkness  fell  on  me, 
and  I  knew  no  more,  till  small  rosy  fingers  plucked  my 
hands  from  my  face,  and  before  me  smiled  innocent,  uncon- 
scious eyes,  and — I  thanked  Heaven  that  I  had  been  patient! 

Main.  Darnley,  tal^e  comfort!  What  you  have  seen  is  no 
proof  of  guilt.  Nay,  rather  can  I  prove  to  you  that  at  this 
very  hour  your  wife's  heart  is  with  you;  your  wife's 

Darn.  Cease.  All  confidence  is  gone — all  excuse  too  late. 
Wedded  faith  is  too  solemn  to  be  blown  to  and  fro  by  every 
wind. 

Enter  JuLIET,  who  stands  hy  the  door  timidly. 

Lady  J.  Henry !    He  hears  me  not.     My  voice  fails  me ! 

Main.  Listen  to  me — one  word 


412  BULWER'S    DRAMATIC    WORKS  [act  iv 

Barn.  Not  one!  I  am  weary  of  this  woman!  My  sole 
happiness  is  in  the  thought  that  seas  and  lands  shall  divide 
us  evermore.  Let  her  face,  as  she  will,  the  storms  of  the 
noisy  world.  I  fly  for  refuge  from  mankind  to  the  shelter 
of  the  only  heart  that  is  left  me  to  cherish.  {Going  toward 
the  room  where  he  has  left  Fanny.] 

Lady  J.  What  do  I  hear?     Henry! — Mercy,  mercy! 

Main.  Now  look  at  her ^ 

[Darnley    turns    round    as   Lady   Juliet   clasps   her 
hands,  and  looks  for  a  moment. 

Main.   And  relent!  [Darnley  turns,  and  Exit. 

Lady  J.  "Weary  of  this  woman?" — "the  only  heart  left 
to  him  to  cherish?"  Tell  him  I  obey.  Tell  him  I  am  con- 
lunt  to  part — tell  him — oh,  lost!  lost  to  me  for  evermore! 

[Falls  as  Mainwaring  supports  her. 


NOTE   TO  "DARNLEY" 


(418) 


NOTE   TO    "DARNLEY" 

The  text  of  the  four  preceding  acts  is  printed  from  the 
second  of  two  rough  drafts  of  them  found  among  my  father's 
manuscripts.  The  drafts  do  not  materially  differ  from  each 
other.  In  both,  the  dramatis  personce  have  the  same  names 
and  characters,  with  the  exception  of  Self  by  Fyshe;  who,  in 
the  first  draft,  is  sometimes  named  Fyshe  but  more  fre- 
quently Languid.  The  author,  when  writing  the  first  draft, 
was  apparently  undecided  which  of  the  two  names  he  should 
finally  adopt  for  this  character.  Of  the  fifth  act  I  have  been 
able  to  find  among  my  father's  papers  no  trace  beyond  some 
fragments  of  scenes  apparently  belonging  to  it,  and  such 
slight  indication  of  its  main  incidents  as  may  be  gathered 
from  the  following  synopsis  of  the  whole  play. 

ACT  I. 

Scene    I. — Stand  as  now, — with  alteration  of  Marsdex's 

character. 
"       II. — Mainwaring  and  Darnley. 
"      III. — Lady  Juliet  and  Sir  Francis.     Sentimental. 
"      IV. — Mainwaring  and  Darnley.    To  aid  Darnley 

in  his  plot. 

ACT  II. 

Lady  Juliet  and  Marsden.  Sentimental  and  danger- 
ous. Enter  Darnley.  Strong  situation.  Enter  Main- 
waring.  Excites  her  jealousy.  She  goes  out.  Darnley 
re-enters.  To  him  Languid;  who  has  taken  a  villa  from 
Marsden,  and  let  it  again  to  Darnley.  Act  to  end  with 
comedy  between  Mainwaring  and  Miss  Placid. 

(415) 


416  NOTE    TO   "DARNLEY" 

ACT  III. 

Scene  I. — Miss  Placid  and  Languid.  Asks  him  to  let 
her  off.     He  won't. 

"  II. — Lady  Juliet  and  Miss  Placid,  Lady  Ju- 
liet's jealousy.  Writes  to  her  husband  that 
she  will  separate. 

"  III. — Darnley.  First  his  equanimity,  then  his  de- 
spair. 

ACT  IV. 

Languid  and  Miss  Placid.     He  is  led  to  suppose  her 
fortune  gone.     Not  as  now.     Altered. 


ACT  V. 

Marsden  and  Languid.  The  joy  of  the  former  at  sepa- 
ration. Has  been  invited  as  a  relative  to  sign  final  arrange- 
ments. Room  in  D.'s  house.  Darnley  and  Marspen. 
Final  scene.     Discovery  and  reconciliation. 

It  will  be  seen  at  once  that  the  second  draft,  which  has 
been  selected  for  the  text  of  this  Edition,  differs  in  some  im- 
portant particulars  from  the  above  synopsis  as  regards  the 
sequence  and  arrangement  of  incidents.  Both  the  draft  and 
synopsis  also  contain  internal  evidence  of  the  author's  inten- 
tion to  make  further  alterations  in  the  structure  of  the  plot, 
and  especially  in  the  situations  which  serve  to  explain  and 
develop  the  character  of  Marsden.  This  character,  as  at 
present  sketched,  is  the  most  artificial  and  least  intelligible 
feature  of  the  play.  Yet  of  all  its  dramatis  personce  Mars- 
den is  dramatically  the  most  important,  since  the  main  plot 
of  the  play  grows  directly  out  of  his  action.  It  is  essential 
to  the  effect  of  the  whole  play  that  the  action  of  this  charac- 
ter should  be  dramatically  justified.  And  the  method  of  its 
dramatic  justification  (which  Mr.  Coghlan  seems  to  have 
thought  unnecessary  or  impossible)  appears  to  me  sufficiently 
indicated  by  the  author  of  the  play  even  in  his  unaltered 


NOTE   TO   "DARNLEY"  417 

sketch  of  Marsden's  character.  Neither  dramatically  nor 
morally  is  Marsdea  a  villain.  His  character  should  be  so 
presented  as  to  enable  us  to  perceive  that,  although  without 
principle,  he  is  not  altogether  without  heart.  From  the  mo- 
ment he  appears  upon  the  stage,  the  audience  is  meant,  and 
should  be  made,  to  understand  that,  in  the  life  of  frivolity 
and  excitement  he  is  leading,  he  has  no  other  interest  or  ob- 
ject than  distraction  from  some  painful  memory.  "Poor 
Susan!"  he  says,  "if  she  had  not  left  me  I  had  been  perhaps 
another  man."  He  adds,  "But  she  deserted  me,  and  lam 
free";  and  then,  with  a  curse  on  late  hours  and  shaken 
nerves,  he  calls  for  the  laudanum  drops.  He  is  selfish,  not 
like  Fyshe,  upon  principle,  but  from  recklessness.  And  he 
is  reckless,  because  the  wreck  of  something  serious  in  his 
life  has  left  him  without  any  serious  interest  or  purpose. 

There  is  nothing  serious  in  his  pursuit  of  Lady  Juliet. 
The  denouement  contemplated  by  the  author  of  the  play 
would  be  impossible  if  Marsden  were  seriously  in  love  with 
Juliet;  and,  were  the  audience  led  to  suppose  him  seriously 
in  love  with  her,  the  artificiality  of  his  sentiments  and  lan- 
guage would  have  been  a  grave  defect  in  the  treatment  of 
those  scenes  wherein  he  makes  love  to  her.  As  it  is,  the 
artistic  truth  of  the  whole  play  would  be  grievousl}^  injured 
by  any  attempt  to  render  the  part  of  Marsden,  in  these 
scenes,  more  natural.  The  author  has  taken  care  to  let  us 
know  tliat  Marsden  is  not  in  love  with  Juliet.  Rightly, 
therefore,  he  has  made  him  woo  her  as  an  actor,  not  as  a 
lover.  In  retouching  this  character,  the  author,  I  doubt  not, 
would  have  slightly  strengthened  the  sympathetic  side  of  it, 
and  softened  some  of  its  more  repulsive  features.  But,  of 
course,  he  would  have  reserved  for  the  fifth  act  the  solu- 
tion of   the   problem   which   requires    that,    till    then,    the 


418  NOTE  TO   "DARNLEY" 

dramatic  motive  of  tlie  character  should  remain  somewhat 
enigmatical. 

I  shall  here  venture  to  suggest  what  I  believe  to  be  the 
explanation  of  Marsden's  character,  and  the  right  denoue- 
ment of  the  plot  so  far  as  it  depends  upon  this  character. 

Marsden  may  be  supposed  to  have  begun  life  with  ex- 
pensive tastes,  small  means,  and  good  expectations  depend- 
ent on  the  will  of  some  relation  (father  or  uncle),  who  would 
be  deeply  offended  by  a  mesalliance,  or  even  an  imprudent 
marriage,  on  his  part.  Abroad,  he  has  become  acquainted 
with  Susan,  the  sister  of  Mainwaring.  She  is  younger  than 
he;  of  humble  station,  though  gently  born;  penniless  and 
entirely  dependent  on  the  exertions  of  her  only  brother, 
whose  name  is  not  then  Mainwaring.  That  brother  has  been 
summoned  to  England  by  the  illness  of  the  kinsman  whose 
name  and  fortune  he  afterward  inherits.  The  girl  is  alone, 
and  motherless.  Marsden's  acquaintance  with  her  may  have 
been  brought  about  by  some  act  of  generosity  or  compassion 
on  his  part;  an  act  which  has  protected  her  from  insult,  or 
extricated  her  from  some  distressing  difficulty;  and  which, 
from  the  nature  and  conditions  of  it,  draws  them  closely 
together.  On  his  part  compassion,  warmed  by  admiration 
of  her  beauty,  on  hers  gratitude  idealized,  in  a  girl's  imagi- 
nation, by  the  fascinations  of  an  apparition  from  some  world 
more  brilliant  than  her  own,  ripen  into  a  passionate  attach- 
ment. That  attachment  is  on  both  sides  innocent  and  pure. 
In  Marsden's  love  for  Susan  there  is  no  thought  of  seduc- 
tion or  betrayal;  but  his  union  with  her,  if  known,  would 
be  fatal  to  his  prospects.  He  persuades  her  to  a  secret  mar- 
riage; and,  in  order  to  insure  its  secrecy,  he  contracts  it 
under  an  assumed  name.  1  apprehend  that  the  assumed  name 
would  not  per  se  invalidate  the  contract,  if  it  were  valid  in 


NOTE   TO    -DARNLEY"  419 

all  other  respects,  and  its  validity  undisputed  by  either 
party  to  it.  But  at  any  rate  it  is  to  be  assumed  that  Mars- 
den  had  strong  and  reasonable  ground  for  believing  that  the 
circumstances  which  induced  him  to  conceal  his  marriage 
would  be  of  the  briefest  possible  duration,  and  that  he  would 
be  in  a  position  to  repair  an  irregularity  not  committed  with 
any  fraudulent  intention  before  it  could  jeopardize  the  legiti- 
macy of  his  offspring.  But  the  occasion  he  had  reckoned 
on  calls  him  suddenly  away  from  Susan;  and  in  his  absence 
some  accident  reveals  to  her  the  unexplained  deception, 
from  which  she  draws  the  worst  conclusions.  Beared  in 
veneration  of  the  proud  and  stern  honesty  embodied  in  the 
character  of  her  brother,  and  overwhelmed  by  the  horror 
and  humiliation  of  this  discovery,  she  flies  from  the  house 
of  her  supposed  seducer. 

Thenceforth  her  predominant  instinct  is  to  hide  herself 
from  all  who  have  known  her.  Marsden,  now  free  to  de- 
clare his  marriage,  returns  from  England.  The  life  before 
him  is  a  vision  of  virtuous  joys  and  beneficent  activities. 
He  is  elated  by  the  prospect  of  sharing  wealth,  station,  and, 
perhaps,  future  eminence,  with  a  woman  in  whose  affection 
he  has  concentrated  all  the  romance  of  a  boy's  first  love, 
all  the  incentives  to  youth's  vague  ambition,  and  all  the 
felicities  of  an  honest  home.  That  home  he  finds  deserted. 
The  wife  he  was  impatient  to  rejoin  has  left  there  only  a 
farewell  letter  filled  with  reproaches.  His  search  for  her 
proves  fruitless.  And  then,  what  his  position  in  life?  what 
his  relations  to  the  world  around  him?  Those  of  a  man 
in  the  freshest  prime  of  youth  and  health,  with  passions 
unappeased,  warm  affections  unsatisfied,  hope  blighted, 
memory  imbittered.  Married,  yet  wifeless,  childless, 
homeless.     Single,    yet    not    free.     Bound    by    a    broken 


420  NOTE  TO    "DARNLEY" 

tie;  and  forbidden  to  replace  it  by  any  new  one  that 
is  not  illicit.  Equally  out  of  unison  with  himself  and  the 
world  around  him,  he  cannot  rest  in  the  unrevealed  afflic- 
tion which  is  all  that  remains  to  him  of  the  past;  yet  in 
the  present  he  has  no  peace,  and  in  the  future  no  escape 
from  it.  The  apparent  artificiality  of  his  character  springs 
from  the  profound  unreality  of  his  position.  Tbis  position 
is  made  up  of  false  appearances  from  which  it  is  not  in  his 
power  to  escape.  It  imposes  on  him  a  character  which, 
though  fictitious,  is  fixed  to  him  by  circumstance  as  firmly 
as  was  the  iron  mask  to  its  unwilling  wearer.  The  fathers 
and  mothers  of  society  see  in  him  a  man  who,  from  every 
point  of  view  independent  of  his  character  or  conduct,  is 
an  eligible  husband  for  their  marriageable  daughters.  Yet 
his  relations  with  women  must  necessarily  be  confined  to 
the  already  married.  With  an  ardent  temperament  caoable 
of  keen  enjoyment  and  vigorous  activity,  he  stands  upon 
the  threshold  of  life  prematurely  purposeless;  or,  at  least, 
with  no  other  purpose  than  to  escape  from  recollections 
in  the  pursuit  of  excitement.  To  such  temperaments  life 
offers  only  two  strong  excitements:  pleasure  and  politics. 
The  acquisition  of  influence  either  over  women  or  over 
men.  But  a  political  career  is  exciting  only  to  ambition 
or  enthusiasm;  and  ths  majority  of  men  are  neither  ambi- 
tious nor  enthusiastic.  Possessing,  at  the  outset  of  life,  a 
fortune  which  tempts  to  pleasure  and  exempts  from  toil, 
Marsden  is  under  no  compulsion  to  work  for  bread.  Wife- 
less and  childless,  in  the  future  as  well  as  the  present,  he 
has  no  motive  to  work  for  fame.  It  is  not  power,  or  public 
influence,  that  he  misses  and  craves  to  recover:  for  these  he 
has  never  known.  It  is  affection:  and  what  the  loss  of  this 
leaves  vacant  in  his  life  he  seeks  to  fill  by  those  emotions 


NOTE  TO   "DAENLEY"  421 

which  are,  at  least,  the  imitations  of  it.  It  is  the  heart,  not 
the  head,  that,  in  his  case,  craves  occupation.  Thus,  his 
need  of  excitement  has  made  him  a  man  of  pleasure;  and 
his  disdain  of  excitements  that  fail  to  fill  the  void  in  his 
affections  has  made  him  a  heartless  man  of  pleasure.  In 
this  secret  of  his  life  lies  the  explanation  of  his  character 
and  conduct.  And  it  is  an  explanation  which,  if  given, 
with  passion  and  dignity,  by  himself,  at  the  close  of  the 
drama,  to  the  woman  he  has  never  ceased  to  love,  and 
never  voluntarily  injured,  would  assuredly  contain  all  the 
conditions  of  a  powerful  and  affecting  situation. 

But,  by  the  dramatic  Calvinism  of  Mr,  Coghlan's  merci- 
less fifth  Act,  Marsden  is  made  to  seduce  Susan  Main  war- 
ing in  a  manner  peculiarly  infamous.  Accused  by  her,  in 
the  presence  of  Lady  Juliet,  not  only  of  having  betrayed 
and  abandoned  his  victim,  but  also  of  having  deliberately 
left  her  to  starve,  or  do  worse,  he  carelessly,  almost  cheer- 
fully, admits  the  truth  of  this  accusation;  making  his  final 
exit  with  the  inane  remark  that  it  is  hard  upon  a  man  to 
be  scolded  by  two  women  at  once.  Could  anything  be  more 
revolting?  And,  notwithstanding  Susan's  plain  avowal  that 
she  is  "an  abandoned  woman"  in  every  sense  of  the 
word,  Mainwaring,  inconsistently  with  his  whole  character 
throughout  the  four  previous  acts,  is,  in  this  act,  persuaded 
by  Miss  Placid  to  "go  and  embrace  his  sister." 

In  one  of  the  wittiest  scenes  ever  written  by  Congreve, 
when  Sir  Harry  Wildare  places  his  guineas  on  the  mantel- 
piece of  the  young  lady  whose  character  and  situation  are 
misconceived  by  him,  she  exclaims  in  astonishment,  "What, 
Sir  Harry,  is  that  all  your  wit  and  manners?"  To  which 
he  replies,  "Ton  my  soul,  my  dear,  'tis  all  the  wit  and 
manners  I   have  about  me  at  present."     I  am  persuaded 


422  NOTE  TO    "DARNLEY" 

that  this  barbarous  denouement  can  be  no  fair  specimen  of 
Mr.  Coghlan's  dramatic  wit  and  manners.  But  all  the  wit 
and  manners  he  had  about  him  when  he  wrote  it  imply  a 
strange  misconception  of  the  situation  and  characters  with 
which  he  was  dealing. 

Indications  of  the  right  denouement  are  not  wanting  in 
the  four  acts  to  which  this  note  is  appended.  But  they 
are  conclusive  in  what  remains  to  be  added  here  from  the 
author's  rough  drafts  and  notes.  Thus  in  a  fragment  of  my 
father's  manuscript  which  would  seem  to  be  part  of  some 
cancelled  sketch  of  the  first  act,  Mainwaring  says  of  his 
sister,  "I  loved  her  more  than  a  father  loves  his  first-born. 
She  fell  ill.  I  give  up  all  other  undertakings,  broke  off 
the  engagements  on  which  my  chance  of  easier  fortune  was 
then  depending,  to  accompany  and  attend  her  abroad.  Was 
suddenly  summoned  home.  Left  her  at  Tours  for  a  few 
weeks.  And  in  the  meanwhile  she  was  gone.  Eloped  with 
some  villain.  Gone!  and  from  that  day  not  one  word. 
Ah,  she  did  well  to  be  silent."  So  again,  in  the  same 
draft  of  the  first  scene  of  the  play,  Marsden,  shaking  oft' 
the  recollection  of  Susan,  exclaims,  "What  is  life?  a  barren 
future,  an  irrevocable  past.  Let  us  clutch  the  present  mo- 
ment ere  it  fleets,  and  enjoy  it, — if  we  can!"  But  the 
strongest  confirmation  of  the  view  here  taken  of  the  char- 
acter assigned  by  the  author  to  the  relations  between  Mars- 
den and  Susan,  is  to  be  found  in  some  cancelled  passages 
of  the  original  manuscript  of  the  scene  at  the  villa  with 
which  my  father  has  opened  his  third  act.  From  his  act- 
ing version  of  the  play,  Mr.  Coghlan  has  omitted  this  scene 
altogether.  And  not  injudiciously.  For  acting  purposes, 
it  obviously  requires  considerable  development  and  alter- 
ation. 


NOTE  TO   "DARNLEY"  423 

Such  a  task  could  scarcely  be  accomplished  with  success 
by  any  writer  not  in  the  secret  of  the  author's  intentions: 
and  there  is  evidence  that  by  the  author  himself  it  was  felt 
to  be  a  task  of  considerable  delicacy,  which  he  reserved  for 
careful  consideration  after  the  completion  of  the  fifth  act, 
or  in  connection  with  it.  In  real  life  it  would  be  almost 
impossible,  and  certainly  incredible,  that  this  scene  should 
take  place  between  Lady  Juliet  and  her  supposed  rival 
without  putting  an  end  to  the  misunderstanding,  which,  in 
the  play,  it  is  designed  to  augment.  This,  I  think,  would 
be  strongly  felt  by  the  spectators  of  the  scene,  if  it  were 
acted  just  as  it  now  stands:  and  such  a  feeling  would  b3 
seriously  prejudicial  to  the  dramatic  effect  of  the  whole 
play.  To  the  prolongation  of  misunderstanding  between 
Lady  Juliet  and  her  husband,  the  audience,  after  witness- 
ing an  uninterrupted  interview  between  the  wife  and  the 
supposed  mistress  on  the  subject  of  these  misunderstand- 
ings, would  scarcely  be  reconciled  by  the  incidents  of  the 
scene  as  it  is  sketched  in  the  unfinished  manuscript.  And, 
indeed,  this  scene  is  more  blotted,  crossed,  and  underlined 
than  any  other  part  of  the  manuscript:  a  fact  which  suggests 
and  justifies  the  conclusion  that  the  author  was  not  satisfied 
with  it  in  its  present  form.  The  passages  cancelled  by  his 
own  pen  are  omitted  from  the  text  of  this  edition.  But  in 
one  of  them  the  Lady  of  the  Yilla  exclaims — "If  you  know 
my  secret,  you  know  also  how  I  was  deceived;  how  I  lis- 
tened only  to  vows  which  had  all  the  eloquence  of  sin- 
cerity; how  I  was  misled,  not  to  the  conscious  commission 
of  a  false  act,  but  into  innocent  reliance  on  the  truth  of 
a  false  name;  how  I  yielded  only  to  a  union  invested  with 
every  evidence  of  virtue,  and  sealed  by  every  sanction  of 
honor;   how  I  believed  myself  a  wife,  till  I  found  myself 


424:  NOTE   TO    "DARNLEY"' 

an  outcast."  And  when  Lady  Juliet  observes  that,  what- 
ever his  errors,  "he"  (meaning  Darnley)  is  incapable  of  the 
villany  implied  by  this  story  of  the  false  name  and  the 
sham  marriage,  the  Lady  of  the  Villa  (in  this  cancelled 
passage)  replies,  "I  meant  not  to  accuse  him.  Alas,  what 
right  have  I  to  accuse  my  betrayer,  when  I  myself  have 
betrayed  an  affection  truer  than  his?  I  who,  beguiled  by 
a  blind  passion,  have  irreparably  wronged  the  tenderest, 
the  noblest  of  human  hearts!  I  who,  if  my  secret  were 
revealed,  might  have  upon  my  soul  the  burden  of  a  broth- 
er's curse,  the  stain  perhaps  of  a  brother's  blood!" 

It  is  evident  from  all  this  that  Susan  Mainwaring  has 
consented  to  a  secret,  but  not  to  a  false,  marriage.  It  is 
evident  that  she  did  not  leave  her  brother  to  become  the 
mistress  of  Marsden,  that  she  never  was  the  mistress  of 
Marsden,  and  that  the  wrong  .done  by  her  to  Mainwaring 
was  limited  to  her  unexplained  fligbt,  and  the  temporary 
concealment  of  a  marriage  which  she  believed  to  be  valid 
and  honorable.  It  is  equally  evident  that  Marsden  has  not 
seduced  Susan  Mainwaring,  and  that  he  never  desired,  in- 
tended, or  attempted  to  seduce  her.  He  lias  deceived  lier 
by  marrying  her  under  a  false  name,  but  in  the  full,  and 
not  erroneous,  belief  that  their  marriage  is  still  a  valid  one, 
and  with  every  intention  of  "setting  matters  right"  as  soon 
as  he  can  do  so  without  forfeiting  the  fortune  he  expects. 
He  is  not  a  good  character,  and  still  less  is  he  a  fine  one. 
Unscrupulous  he  certainly  is,  inconsiderate,  self-indulgent, 
somewhat  selfish,  lax  in  his  morals,  but  neither  a  villain 
nor  a  blackguard.  In  another  cancelled  passage  of  this 
scene  the  Lady  of  the  Villa  explains  to  her  servant  that 
Darnley  has  advised  her  to  frequent  the  park  and  all  places 
of  public  amusement,  with  a  view  to  the  recognition  of  her 


NOTE  TO   "DARNLEY"  426 

supposed  betrayer.  And,  since  Darnley  is  known  to  pay 
for  her  carriage  and  establishment,  her  fulfilment  of  this 
injunction  would,  of  course,  tend  to  strengthen  the  im- 
pression made  on  Fyshe  and  others  that  she  is  Darnley's 
mistress — a  mistress  moreover  of  the  most  ordinary  type. 
Evidently  Darnley  is  not  cognizant  of  the  real  facts  of  the 
case,  and  supposes  it  to  be  worse  than  it  is.  In  yet  an- 
other part  of  the  scene  as  originally  sketched,  which  has 
also  been  struck  out  by  the  author,  the  following  incident 
occurs.  Immediately  after  the  departure  of  Lady  Juliet, 
the  servant  hurriedly  enters,  conjuring  the  Lady  of  the 
Villa  to  hasten  with  her  to  the  window  of  the  next  room, 
and  look  through  it,  at  the  gentleman  who  is  talking  to  her 
late  visitor  in  the  street.  "What  do  you  mean?"  exclaims 
the  Lady  of  the  Villa:  and  the  scene  ends  thus: — 

[Serva7it.  I  think  it  is  Mr.  Swynford.  I'm  sure  it  is  he. 
On  horseback.  By  the  carriage  of  the  lady  who  has  just 
gone. 

Lady.  Swynford?  Ah,  Heaven!  one  look,  one  glance, 
and  then —  {^xit  ivith  /Servant.)] 

From  this  it  is  obvious  that  Swynford  is  the  name  under 
which  Marsden  has  married  Susan.  I  do  not  pretend  even 
to  suggest  how  my  father,  had  he  completed  this  play,  or 
prepared  it  for  the  stage,  would  have  worked  out  the  denoue- 
ment of  it  on  the  lines  thus  indicated.  I  know  not  how 
Susan  Mainwaring's  discovery  that  she  had  been  married 
under  a  false  name  would  have  been  reconciled  by  him 
with  her  obvious  ignorance  of  Marsden's  real  name.  And 
there  are  many  other  details  in  which  the  construction  of 
the  plot  must  forever  remain  incomplete.  The  wand  of 
Prospero  is  buried  in  the  deep;  and  with  it  all  the  se- 
crets of  his  art.    But,  in  order  to  justify  both  her  brother's 


426  NOTE   TO    "DARNLEY" 

forgiveness,  and  the  sympathy  her  situation  is  intended  to 
elicit,  it  is  essential  tLat  Mainvvaring's  sister  should  not 
have  deliberately  left  her  brother's  house  for  the  purpose 
of  living  with  Marsden  as  his  mistress;  and  to  her  ultimate 
reconciliation  with  Marsden  himself,  the  validity  of  the 
marriage  she  contracted  without  any  doubt  of  its  honesty 
is  no  less  indispeosable.  Of  the  dramatic  importance  of 
this  condition  in  its  relation  to  tbe  character  of  Main- 
waring,  further  illustration  will  be  found  in  the  following 
fragment  of  a  scene  found  among  the  author's  notes  for 
his  fifth  act. 

[ACT  A^— SCENE  I. 
Darnley's  Library.     Darnley  and  Mainwaring  seated. 

Darn.  I  tell  you,  Mainwaring,  I  have  not  been  to  the  firm 
to-day.  I  care  not  what  befall.  Henceforth,  wealth  and 
poverty  are  the  same  to  me.  Enough  of  this,  and  of  my- 
self. Before  I  leave  England,  there  is  one  matter  in  which 
I  still  feel  an  interest.  I  must  turn  from  my  sorrows  to 
your  own.     What  if  I  had  tidings  of  your  sister? 

Main,  {at  first  eagerly).  My  sister!  Is  she  safe?  is  she 
well?  {In  altered  voice.)  Has  she  still  the  right  to  call  me 
brother? 

Darn.  Can  that  right  ever  be  forfeited?  My  friend,  give 
your  kind  heart  its  natural  vent. 

Main.  Only  say  that  she  bears  a  husband's  name!  Only 
say  that  slie  is — she  is — the  word  strangles  me — -Darnley,  is 
she  honest? 

Darn.  Recall  her  youth,  her  innocence,  her  beauty. 
What  if  she  had  been  deceived,  betrayed?  her  virtue 
ensnared,  her 

Main.  Hold!  Enough!  I  renounce  her.  Let  her  reap 
in  sorrow  what  she  has  sowed  in  shame. 

Darn.  Bnt 

Main.  Name  her  not!  name  lier  not! 

Darn.  Well,  then,  when  I  quit  these  sliores,  let  your 
sister  .  .  .  who  shall  protect  her  if  .  .  .  Ah,  Mainwaring, 
see  her.     Listen  to  her  once.     Hear  her  own  tale. 

Main.   I  will  not  see  her,  for  I  will  not  spurn  my ] 


NOTE   TO   "DARNLEY"  J:27 

Here  the  scene  breaks  oif  unfinished. 

And  now,  as  to  the  denouement  of  the  whole  phay.  Two 
plots  are  involved  in  it — a  sentimental  and  a  comic  plot.  It 
appears  to  me  suggested  by  sound  principles  of  dramatic 
construction,  yi?-6'i,  that  the  action  of  the  lighter  plot  should 
be  directly  conducive  to  the  development  and  denouement  of 
the  more  serious  plot;  secondly^  that  the  House  of  Darnley 
should  be  saved  in  that  denouement— not  (as  in  Mr.  Coghlan's 
acting  version)  by  Darnley's  ward.  Miss  Placid,  who  has  no 
direct  connection  with  the  cause  of  its  impending  ruin — but 
by  his  wife  Lady  Juliet,  whose  relation  to  the  plot  is  the 
meeting  point  of  those  forces  and  influences  which  affect 
her  husband's  fortunes  through  his  feelings;  connecting  the 
house  with  the  home,  and  giving  to  the  whole  drama  its 
moral  significance.  That  all  this  was  intended  by  the  author 
of  the  drama  may  be  confidently  assumed,  both  from  the 
structure  of  its  first  four  acts,  and  from  the  two  remaining 
fragments  of  scenes  written  by  him  for  the  fifth  act  of  it, 
which  I  now  subjoin. 

[ACT  v.— SCENE  V. 
Miss  Placid  and  Fyshe. 

Fyshe.   What  do  I  hear?  you  deceive  me! 

Miss  P.  Upon  my  honor  it  is  true.  But  with  £15,000 
and  your  own  patrimony,  we  can  still  drive  a  tandem,  and 
hunt  twice  a  week. 

Fyshe.  'Sdeath!  This  is  a  blow.  Deranges  all  my  cal- 
cuhitions.  Hunting,  driving,  smoking,  on  one  side,  and 
£30,000  on  the  other,  was  a  very  near  balance  of  items. 
Substract  £15,000  from  the  one  account,  and  add  Kissing 
Dick  Mainwarmg  to  the  other,  and,  faith!  it's  a  devilish 
bad  book,     I  should  like  to  hedge. 

Miss  P.  You  are  silent?  I  can't  bear  silent  people. 
Talk!  laugh!  rattle!  Hang  money,  and  drown  care!  {She 
sings.) 


428  NOTE   TO    "DARNLEY" 

Fyshe  {aside).  The  creature  exhausts  me.  Takes  away 
all  my  oxygen.     I  feel  like  a  mouse  in  an  air-pump! 

Enter  Servant. 

Servant.  Lady  Juliet  wishes  to  see  you,  ma'am. 

Miss  P.  Mr.  Fyshe,  excuse  me.  If  you  wait  for  Lord 
Fitzhollow  in  the  little  parlor  next  to  the  library,  you  will 
see  a  portfolio.     My  last  caricatures. 

Fyshe.  So  she  draws  caricatures,  too! 

Miss  P.  A  little  likeness  of  yourself.  Will  divert  you. 
You've  no  idea  how  all  your  friends  have  enjoyed  it.  Ah, 
you  don't  know  half  my  accomplishments. 

Fyshe.  Not  yet,  thank  Heaven!  {Aside.)  I  see  the  ac- 
complishments increase  in  an  inverse  ratio  to  the  money. 
Not  a  farthing  less  than  £30,000  could  compensate  for  the 
misery  of  a  life,  and  only  half  her  accomplishments.  Shoot- 
ing, hunting,  driving,  smoking,  kissing,  caricaturing.  .  .  . 
It  is  too  much!  That  is,  the  quid  pro  quo  is  too  little. 
{Aloud.)  I  release  you.  I  see  that  we  shall  not  be  happy. 
I  will  write 

Miss  P.  Kelease  me!     What,  you  won't  marry  me? 

Fyshe.  I'd  sooner  marry  the  chimpanzee.  I'll  write  the 
release — while  I  look  at  my  caricature.  {Aside.)  Good 
heavens,  what  frisky  obstreperous  children  she  would 
have  had!     {Exit.) 

Miss  P.  Ha!  ha!  I  have  won  the  victory  for  myself. 
Now,  then,  I  must  bring  up  my  forces  to  aid  my  friend. J 

It  was  probably  intended  that  the  half  of  Miss  Placid's 
fortune  should  appear  to  have  been  lost  in  the  bankruptcy 
which  is  averted  by  the  sale  of  Lady  Juliet's  jewels.  On 
the  eve  of  Darnley's  departure  from  England,  Mainwaring, 
who,  not  being  in  Miss  Placid's  plot,  believes  in  the  reality 
of  her  alleged  loss,  urges  her  to  accept  from  him  the  home 
which  Darnley  can  no  longer  give  her.  And  hence  a  scene 
between  them,  concluded  by  an  embrace  in  which  Fyshe 
has  surprised  them.  The  manuscript  of  Darnley  includes 
another  version  of  this  scene,  through  which  the  author  has 
drawn  his  pen.     But  the  cancelled  scene  contains  a  situa- 


NOTE   TO    "DARNLEY  •  429 

tion  which  throws  some  light  on  the  denouement  of  the  play. 
It  is  thus  sketched. 

[^Enter  Servant  {folloived  hy  a  lady,  veiled). 

Servant.   A  ladj  wishes  to  see  you,  ma'am. 

Miss  P.  Me?  Be  seated,  madam.  Mr.  Fyshe,  excuse 
me. 

Fyshe.  Grood  heavens!  what  is  this?  Darnley's  mistress. 
Miss  Placid's  friend  ?  In  her  own  house  ?  Lord,  have 
mercy  on  us!  "Birds  of  a  feather"  indeed!  What  an  escape 
I  have  had!  What  an  escape!  What  frisky  obstreperous 
children  she  would  have  had!     {Exit.)] 

This  last  fragment  completes  the  number  of  indications 
left  in  my  father's  handwriting  of  his  general  intentions  re- 
specting the  act  he  had  left  unwritten,  I  have  thought  it 
expedient  to  collect  them  all,  with  some  explanatory  obser- 
vations, in  this  edition  of  "Darnley";  and  although  they 
are  few  in  number,  and  faint  in  outline,  they  will,  I  think, 
suffice  to  enable  the  readers  of  the  play,  as  here  printed,  to 
form  a  fairly  correct  notion  of  its  intended  denouement. 

LYTTON. 

Knebworth,  Hay  16,  1882. 


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